Twice As Deep
by Schroe Dawson
Summary: Racetrack's in love. But the girl he's so smitten with has a history with Spot. No, she isn't an old girlfriend. It's much worse than that. This girl knows Spot's secret. A secret that could ruin everything. SEQUEL TO ONCE AND FOR ALL!
1. Off to the Races Again

_Disclaimer: I don't own Newsies. Must I constantly be reminded of this? I wish I owned Newsies. I would settle for just owning Spot. Or Racetrack. Or Kid Blink. Hell, who am I kidding? I want them all. _

_...And an Author's Note: I'm back. I'm addicted to writing this. I totally was not planning to write a sequel... and then I got to the last four chapters of "Once and For All" and I couldn't stand leaving them with so many loose ends to tie up. Then I thought of a plot. Mua. So yeah. Nothing really happens in this chapter, it's mostly exposition about where the newsies (or rather, former newsies) are and their situation. Enjoy._

_--Schroe Dawson

* * *

_

Spar Street was not a high profile location of New York City. It was on the shabbier side of Brooklyn—a part of town that even Spot Conlon's boys didn't bother selling in. Well, back when newsies still roamed New York, that is. Spar Street was a slum, a real skid row. There was no cash to spare on that street, and the Spar residents knew to keep an eye out for the little dough they did have, lest it be picked from their pockets.

Visually, the street was a disaster. An atrocious setting. There wasn't a window that wasn't either cracked and shattered or boarded up with rotting planks. The actual road had a mire-like quality, what with the amount of waste accumulated on the rough, uneven cobblestones. The buildings were grubby to the touch. The entire alley (for the narrow, crooked road really was more of an unusually wide alley than a thoroughfare) was a sketchy place. The inhabitants were unpleasant and suspicious; everything on Spar Street seethed in filth.

From this description, anyone with half a brain (or more) should know better than to roam Spar Street alone and after dark. Of course, Racetrack Higgins had never set much in store when it came to curfews. In his days as a Manhattan newsboy, he was often the last to return to Kloppman's, well after dark. Anyone who knew Racetrack at all would not be surprised to learn that he was returning to Spar Street after a day at Sheepshead Bay. Any day at the tracks was a good day, in Racetrack's book, even if he now spent his time taking the bets, rather than making them himself. Yes, now that the era of newsies had passed, Racetrack Higgins picked up his change by working at his favorite place in the world.

He turned onto Spar, not even flinching at the sight (or the stench) that greeted him. After spending a little more than seventeen years of residing in slums of varying quality, and two months of actually living on Spar Street, Racetrack had become acclimated to the awful place he now called home.

'Home' was a dilapidated old building near the end of street. It wasn't the shabbiest structure in the area, nor was it one of the finer buildings around. It was conveniently inconspicuous: soiled and rotting like the rest of the street, but not a place that would catch anyone's eye.

Racetrack approached the door, knocking twice before calling quietly through the substantial crack between the door and its frame:

"It's Racetrack!"

There was a scuffling sound as someone on the other side fumbled with the hinge, and a moment later, the door opened to reveal a small black-skinned boy.

"Hey, Boots."

"Heya, Race." Boots ushered Racetrack inside, "We'se was jus' startin' suppeh."

The last piece of information was evident as soon as Racetrack walked into the one room the former newsies shared. Most of the boys were perched on crates or laying the floor sipping tomato soup. That wasn't Racetrack's only clue: Mush Meyers appeared to be wearing most of his soup—tomato was splattered all down his front. Kid Blink Ballatt and Francis Sullivan (better known as Jack Kelly) both looked very pleased with themselves, and Racetrack, therefore, had no doubts that he had just missed an interesting prank.

Boots handed Racetrack a bowl half-filled with soup; he accepted it gratefully and took a seat on the floor between Crutchy and Jack. He sipped it contentedly. Life certainly had changed for the former newsies. Since their final defeat that winter, which had ended with the eight of them fleeing from the clutches of Warden Snyder, the newsies were forced to abandon their jobs and find work elsewhere. Racetrack felt he'd had the best luck finding a job. Sure, most of the others probably made more money, but Racetrack at least enjoyed his job at the tracks.

Kid Blink and Mush both were working as busboys at an Irish alehouse several blocks away. It was thanks to them that the other kids got food to eat; Blink and Mush often saved table scraps from the restaurant to bring home to share. (Racetrack suspected that O'Connell's Alehouse had sponsored the cold tomato soup he was currently savoring.) Boots was making use of his old profession and shined shoes in the street. Crutchy and Lunch Money were both strangely fortunate in their job searches; Crutchy ended up clerking at a drugstore, while Lunch Money was apprenticed at a millinery. Lunch Money had recently decided that she despised milliners even more than laundry girls.

Speaking of Lunch Money, Racetrack realized (as he looked around, mentally taking roll of his friends) that his little sister wasn't among them.

"Hey guys, wheah's Lunch Money?"

Blink looked around, bemused, only just noticing Lunch Money's absence.

"I dunno, Race, I ain't seen her."

"She had ta woirk late." Jack said as he lit up a cigarette, "But actually, she shoulda been back by now." The tip of the cig smoked and glowed, reminding Racetrack of the Havana cigar he'd lifted from some rich stuffed shirt on his way home. It was currently waiting in his coat pocket. He didn't have time to smoke though; he had to attend to his protective older brother panic attack.

"What?" Racetrack demanded, "She's woirkin' this late and and you'se is lettin' her walk home alone? It's already dark out!"

"Relax Race," Jack rolled his eyes, "_You_ seemed ta make it home al'right yahself."

"Well, shoah, but d'ya remembeh what happened last time we let her wander around Brooklyn in the middle a' the night?" Racetrack glared significantly at the other boys, referring to a memorable night that had taken place several months ago.

"_Relax_." Jack said again, "Geez, Race. Spot went ta pick her up. He'll walk her home, quit worryin'."

Racetrack knew Jack was right. He needed to stop worrying so much about Lunch Money. Ever since his sister had joined the newsies, Racetrack felt constantly responsible for her. Which was not in his nature. His friends knew Racetrack Higgins as the boy likely to talk his way out of paying off a bet he'd suggested in the first place. The boy who spent his time coming up with bad jokes, jokes often accompanied by his incorrigible wise-ass grin. But in the last year, Racetrack had been on older brother duty; a nonstop occupation that was rather challenging, given that Lunch Money (of all the little sisters in the world) had to be _his_ little sister. Unfortunately Racetrack was not cut out to be responsible. He hated being the responsible one. He was a scoundrel, a grammar-school drop-out, a gambler.

"Wait." Mush said slowly, "Spot went to pick her up?"

The boys looked at Jack reprovingly He should know better than to compromise their position. For God's sake, they were living on the lam, outside of the law. Snyder had been looking for Jack and Spot for months. Any cop around Brooklyn would recognize them; at least that's what the other boys thought. Jack and Spot had therefore spent a good deal of time indoors during the last couple of months. It was driving both of them mad; Jack and Spot were used to getting out, having their day's adventures, causing a bit of trouble on the side. But they couldn't afford to continue their usual rash behavior if their presence was to remain undetected.

But of course Spot_ had_ to go roaming the streets of Brooklyn. And Jack had let him go. It seemed that most street rats weren't cut out to be responsible.

* * *

"Hey. Ready ta go?" 

Lunch Money looked up from a disgustingly feathered lady's bonnet. Spot stood just inside the shop. His presence was a relief; Lunch Money was that much closer to closing up the millinery and getting hell out of there. Shelving ugly hats and selling them to uglier women always put Lunch Money in an ill temper by the end of the day.

"I'se been ready ta go all day. I can't wait ta get outta this hellhole." She grabbed a pile of circular hatboxes off the front counter and marched them into the workroom in the back. She reappeared a minute later, as distracted and irritable as ever. Spot watched while Lunch Money fiddled with the register at the front, the high-pitched bell dinging as the cash box slid open. She scanned the box, quickly calculating the day's earnings. Lunch Money looked up quickly, Spot's presence finally registering fully.

"Whaddya doin' heah?" She asked angrily, "Spot, you'se an' Jack are s'posed ta be keepin' outta sight." Lunch Money couldn't quite bring herself to act as annoyed as she should.

"It's too late fa' ya ta be walkin' home by yahself." Spot shrugged.

"Blink coulda come. Race coulda come." Lunch Money told him sternly, finishing off the last of her work, copying the monetary information into a thick accounting book, dotting the decimal points with a little more force than was necessary. "_Someone who didn't have a twenty dollah reward on his head_ coulda come."

"Look who's talkin'." Spot teased good naturedly, handing Lunch Money her coat as they made their way toward the door, "I ain't the only one with idiot ideas that put me at risk."

Lunch Money laughed. It was true; her past was littered with recklessness and poor decisions. She was the very last person to lecture Spot about staying out of trouble.

"Well, one of us has to stay sane." Lunch Money gave Spot a reproachful look, "And apparently it's my turn."

Spot smirked, and held open the door of the millinery, ushering Lunch Money out of the shop. Lunch Money buttoned up her coat. It was almost eight o'clock, she guessed, and the light had long ago dimmed to a navy blue shroud that was quickly darkening to black. She couldn't wait for the summer, when the sun stayed up until ten.

Spot and Lunch Money started down the street, not walking as quickly as Racetrack would have preferred, had he been there to express a preference. No doubt the boy was still waiting nervously on Spar Street for his sister to get home. Talk about paranoid.

They took their time, Spot's arm around Lunch Money's shoulders. They talked of nothing in particular—Lunch Money's newfound distaste for hats, the awful food Kid Blink and Mush were always bringing home (that topic always led to fantasies about what the tightwads like Pulitzer and Hearst might be eating off of their dinner tables.), whether or not it was possible to sling-shot a marble through the top windows of the Woolworth Tower. They kept up an easy, comfortable banter, only interrupted when one would steal a quick kiss from the other. It was rare that Lunch Money and Spot got a moment alone, away from Racetrack and Jack and Mush and the other boys. And in the few moments that they did get by themselves, they rarely squandered that time just _talking_.

...But this was nice, just the two street urchins walking home, enjoying simple conversation. In the past months, they had gone from bitter enemies to love interests. Now they sounded like best friends, the way they carried on as they walked down the center of Spar. Albeit best friends who slept together.

Racetrack was waiting right inside the door upon their return. He surprised everyone by not launching into a lecture. He had promised himself to lay off the big brother act. He would follow through on that promise if it killed him.

"Geez, Lunch, what kinda hours they have ya woirkin' there? Any business that's open after the tracks close is jus' wastin' it's time—all the respectable types go in once the gates are closed." Racetrack smirked. Lunch Money merely looked puzzled. The Jack shoved Racetrack, laughing.

"Yeah, the real respectable gents are all down at the races."

"Dressed in only the best." Crutchy added slyly.

"_I put on my best and I stick out my chest--" _Kid Blink began jovially.

"No!" Spot's hands jumped to his ears, "I haven't been able to get that damn song outta me head since eighteen ninety-nine!"


	2. Meet Cassie Arden

_Author's Note: As you can see, my new OC is introduced in this chapter. ...I'm still reeling from trying to write someone so ridiculously different from Lunch Money... although you will definitely find later that the two girls aren't _complete_ polar opposites. Speaking of Lunch Money, I've gotten a few questions about the origin of her name. I do have a backstory worked out, and I'm looking for a place work it in sometime soon. Oh yes, and to answer PsychopathofSanity's question, it's 1901. Lunch Money started working as a newsie in the winter of 1889, a few months after the strike. "Once and For All" begins in the fall of 1900, and ends in January of 1901. It is now March, 1901. Whew. Enjoy._

_--Scroe Dawson

* * *

_

The skies were gray and stony. It looked colder than it really was, Cassie knew, but she still wanted nothing better than to lie in bed all day, warm and comfortable. If every girl in New York slept in a bedroom as wonderful the one Cassie Arden had, then none of them would ever bother getting out of bed. The room itself was large enough to comfortably fit her large sleigh bed, a vanity, a dresser and an armoire. The window next to her bed overlooked a lovely sight—the highly touted Park Avenue.

Cassie sat up. Someone was knocking in an irritatingly persistent way. It was Aria, one of the family's trusted servants. She brought news from Mr. and Mrs. Arden, both of whom were breakfasting in the downstairs parlor.

"Miss Cassandra, your mother says it's time for you to get up and ready for the day before you sleep it away entirely." Aria opened the door, obviously trying to keep from rolling her eyes as she mimicked Mrs. Arden's stiff, proper speech. Cassie wanted to giggle at Aria's uncanny impression, but she knew better than to encourage impudence among the servants.

"You and your parents will be going on an 'outing' this afternoon." Aria added, "With the McClellans and their son Henry. Your mother says to wear the light brown dress."

With a little bob of a curtsy, Aria left Cassie to prepare for the day. Another day out with the McClellans. How many 'outings' had they been on in the last month? How many parties had they attended together? Cassie couldn't even count. She didn't much mind it though. Well, maybe she did, but it was becoming more and more difficult to distinguish what her parent wanted, and what Cassie wanted. Cassie had long ago trained herself to not care when other people started planning her life and telling her what to do. None of it really mattered; her parents always knew much better than she did anyway. And her father was the man of the house. Men were always the decision makers.

If they were planning to marry her off to Henry McClellan, so much the better. Cassie didn't particularly like Henry, but he was handsome enough, and certainly rich enough. Cassie always told herself how lucky she was: while poor orphans and runaways slept on the streets and lived as poor fragile waifs, Cassie got beautiful dresses and spending money for frivolities. She was a young lady of privilege. It was well worth being ordered around by her parents. Money and power, she had always been told, were the keys to happiness. Sadly, Cassie believed it. She believed that, and the idea that as long as her life was comfortable and carefree, she would be perfectly content.

It was the rebellious wealthy children that annoyed Cassie. There were certainly enough of those crawling Pak Avenue. Ungrateful little snots, trying to defy their parents wishes. Complaining about their betrothals, always trying to sneak out of their estates to go shoot craps with the urchins or run rampantly about the city. Did they not understand how dangerous the streets were? How unclean and unsavory? As far as Cassie could tell, those sorts of children were only being contrary to spite their parents; to shock and horrify for the pleasure of getting a rise out of adults. It was just so much better when everyone got along; Cassie wanted her parents to be happy, to be proud of their daughter.

Cassie rolled out of bed, catching sight of herself in the full-length mirror against one wall. She was a fright: her honey-colored waves of hair were stringy and tangled in amusingly wild bunches, and her greenish hazel eyes were puffy and crusted with sleep. It would be quite a task to make herself presentable.

Indeed, it was over an hour before she was ready to leave. After scrubbing her face with a liberal application of soap, attacking her mop of hair with a hairbrush, piling her locks on top of her head in an elegant knot, and carefully dressing in the gorgeous silken clothing her mother had specified, Cassie joined her parents downstairs. She entered the parlor, feeling exceptionally tall in the new shoes her mother had bought for her last week. The McClellans were already seated and each sipping a mid-morning cup of tea. At Cassie's arrival, both Mr. McClellan and Henry jumped to their feet. Cassie patiently listened to the exclamations of how beautiful she was looking this morning. She smiled graciously at the compliments, too naïve to pick up the lecherous undertones of Mr. McClellan's comments.

Cassie took her seat (regrettably, the only available one was next to Henry), showing much more interest in the conversation than she felt. As the grown-ups talked around them, Henry placed his hand on top of Cassie's. Inwardly, she cringed in her resignation. She didn't mind being engaged to the boy, and she wouldn't mind being married to him (or his money), but she did wish that he would stop pretending that they were in love. It was embarrassing; Henry always liked to keep hold of her hand, or put his arm around her as they walked. But if she protested, Cassie knew her mother would skin her alive. So she ignored Henry as best she could, (without being obviously rude) hoping he'd get the message.

"Well, we'd best be off." Cassie's father said pompously, rising to her feet. The rest of the Ardens and their guests followed the suit. "The first races will be starting soon."

"The first races?" Cassie blurted out, confused.

"Oh yes, Cassie. Mr. McClellan recently acquired his own personal box at Sheepshead Races and we thought it would be fun to spend the day watching the horse races."

That didn't sound like much fun to Cassie, but she pasted a game smile on her face and followed the rest of the party out of the parlor. Watching horses run around and around on a track, with working class miscreants in the cheap seats screaming for their favorites, and the general aroma of manure hanging in the air didn't seem like a proper way to pass ones time, but Mr. McClellan was something a gambler himself. He was forever losing money in card games and other bets. When a man was rich enough, he could gamble and never lose, Cassie figured. He would always have more money to rely on. She couldn't imagine anyone on Park Avenue ever running out of money, no matter how much they gambled; there was an endless supply in the bank accounts of the residents on Cassie's street.

* * *

Sheepshead certainly was exciting; Cassie had to credit that. There were so many people, so many different kinds of people. Most of them were yelling or chattering to their companions excitedly. Cassie maintained a dignified posture as she was led past the ruffians and bums lining up for the bleacher seats. Though she could sense the charged atmosphere around her, Cassie remembered how her mother was always telling her to remain poised at all time. She looked neither left nor right, keeping up a distantly superior façade for the benefit of the less-than-fortunate. Mrs. Arden often told her daughter that the better half of society had to set a good example for the rapscallions that littered the world.

The races began, and Cassie felt her eyes glaze over as the events dragged on. She didn't understand why everyone was so worked up over those big, dumb animals running around in circles. It was worse than sitting through the Christmas Eve mass; not only was she bored out of her mind and impatient for the day to be over, she was sitting outside in the cool wind (the pewter gray sky was threatening to unlease heavy spring rain) and enduring the terrible stink of the track below.

No one paid Cassie any attention. That was the worst part. She was used to being fawned over by her parents and the McClellans. But even Henry didn't spare her a glance during the races. Cassie couldn't decide whether that was better or worse than him sitting with his arm around her, trying to feel her up. After a short reflection, she decided that it was definitely better to be ignored than molested. But it still wasn't fun to feel invisible.

The thing about Cassie Arden was that she had no sense of self. She _was_ invisible. She was a nobody; just a rich girl with the one concern of obeying her parents and trying to preserve a respectable reputation. Any unique personality traits that Cassie posessed had been stifled by her overbearing parents and the life that came with her station. She never questioned, she never fought, she never argued. She never even thought about what she might do with her life if she had a say in its course. She was a china doll: completely unaware that she could think for herself. And if she had decided to remain seated in the box watching the races all day, Cassie would have forever stayed agreeable, passive in every situation. But that was not to be.

* * *

It was rare that Racetrack found himself bored at Sheepshead. The place was just so full of energy; it was hard not to get caught up in the whirl of enthusiasm that emanated from the tracks. Alas, all the fervor was concentrated outside at the races. Racetrack was stuck inside. He should have been scrubbing the floors while there was no one traveling through the wing he'd been put in charge of. But Racetrack thought now would be a perfect time to break out the cigar he'd saved from yesterday. The procrastinor.

Normally, he was down taking bets, right in the thick of the action. Scrubbing floors was his punishment; young Master Higgins had been caught the previous day, running illicit under-the-table bets with customers. He couldn't help it: so many men eager to gamble, and if he offered a cheaper ante with better odds, most of them were sure to fall for the bait. By the end of the day, Racetrack (the boy) was bringing far more bets than the racetrack (the place). But he'd been caught for driving customers away from Sheepshead's considerable pot. And so he was stuck inside for the week, mopping up and staying out of trouble.

Racetrack stubbed out the cigar, looking around at the filthy floors, resigned. He picked up the mop, but before he could begin working, he noticed something. A girl (refined and well-off, by the look of her) was wandering the hallway, looking quite lost.

It wasn't something Racetrack would usually take too much notice of (girls, especially rich ones, were almost useless at finding their way around, and they were always asking for direction back to their seats), so it seemed peculiar that he should stop and stare. Maybe it was because he was looking for any excuse to get out of attending to his work. Maybe it was because he hadn't gotten an opportunity to hit on any girls his age recently. Maybe it was plain ol' fate, if you believe in that kind of thing. Which Racetrack didn't. Whatever reason, Racetrack paused, watching the girl slowly make her way down the hallway. When she was close enough to call to, Racetrack asked her:

"Ya lost, sweetface?"

She gave him a rather affronted look, as though it was a severe infraction for a scamp like Racetrack to even speak to her. Racetrack just grinned back impishly. He was used to those rich bitches acting… bitchy. When you were a street rat, you quickly became accustomed to the upper crust of society looking down their noses at you. Racetrack took her expression in his stride, and just waited for the girl to answer. After a pause, she spoke to him, in a tone that more than suggested a distaste for conversing with scruffy working class boys.

"No, I am not lost." She said shortly, "What would give you that idea?"

"Nuttin'," Racetrack shrugged, valiantly refraining from rolling his eyes, "Only ya looked lost." He feigned an innocent look.

"Well, I'm not." She insisted. She'd come to a stop a few feet away from Racetrack, who was now leaning on the mop, casually shifting his weight to rest on the tool he should have been using to clean the floor beneath his feet.

"I don't understand how anyone stands being here, anyway." The girl sighed, the fight gone from her voice. She seemed to be talking more to herself than to Racetrack, sounding tired and defensive. "It's horribly dull."

"Dull?" Racetrack was offended by her blasphemy. He set the mop against the wall, and walked a few paces towards the girl. "The races, _dull?_ What's a' mattah wit' you, goil? Ya been dropped on ya head?"

"No. I'm just bored of sitting up in that uncomfortable box all day."

"Ah, a' course the _boxes_ are boring. Ya gotta be right dere in the middle a' the action." Racetrack said fervently, slamming his right fist into his left palm, a glint in his eye, "C'mon, I'll show ya."

He grabbed her hand, pulling her toward the back entrance of the stands. She drew back, unsure.

"I shouldn't."

"Why not? It ain't gonna do any harm." Racetrack reasoned, confused as to why anyone would protest a trip to the tracks.

"I guess not." She said slowly, looking over her shoulder, back the way she came. She still reluctant to risk getting in trouble, but she followed Racetrack nonetheless.

"See, I knew ya weren't a bitch." Racetrack teased, laughing at the girl's shocked expression upon the usage of the obscenity, "What's ya name, anyway?"

"Cassie Arden." She told him, clearly befuddled by her current situation. One minute, she'd been wandering around Sheepshead Races; the next, she was following some shabby urchin into the second-class bleacher seats of the stadium. What _would_ her mother think?

"Who are you?" Cassie returned the question.

"Racetrack Higgins."


	3. The Good Application of Logic

After Racetrack had convinced Cassie that, yes, his name _was_ Racetrack, the two took a detoured route to the tracks. Racetrack was on probation; he couldn't be seen in the stands, so showed her out through a back door. It led down a flight of stairs, and then through a long narrow hallway and outside, coming out under the bleachers.

When she first stepped into the cool afternoon breeze, Cassie was a little scared. She'd never done anything so wild before. Far above her head, she could hear the stamping and commotion in the stand. Her surroundings were far from glamorous. No grass grew under the stands, so the ground on which she stood was bare dirt mingled with slippery rocks. The ceiling of bleachers were rusted and dripping. Cassie frankly stared as Racetrack led her past the homeless bums sheltering from the wind. It was a world she was most unfamiliar with.

Cassie was greatly relieved when they were out from under the seating area. Racetrack showed the way out, and (after jumping a couple of short gates and railings) they found a couple of vacancies in the second row. Racetrack was more excited than usual; it was rare to land such quality seats. Cassie tried to make herself comfortable on the wooden plank, but she soon discovered, there wasn't time to relax at a racetrack.

"Look! Look!" Racetrack pointed wildly towards the starting gates, where the racehorses were just getting into position in the stalls, "That one dere, that mangy red one. He's the winneh."

"How do you know he's going to win?" Cassie laughed skeptically. Maybe she had a lot to learn about horse racing, but she doubted there was a predetermined winner for each race.

"I gotta tip for a fella who woirks in the stables." Racetrack said impressively, "See, sometimes they rig the races… Ya can't trust nuttin' ya heah from nobody though, ya neveh can tell when a hot tip's fa' real or not. Sometimes no one tells the horse about the tip. But I gotta good feelin' about this one."

"And you'll bet money on just a 'good feeling'?" Cassie asked in an incredulous tone, "That seems an awful risk… I mean, it isn't so bad when you've got money to spare, I suppose. But _you_ couldn't possibly afford to—" She broke off, blushing.

"I can afford it." Racetrack shrugged, "If I'se got some money in me pocket, I can afford anything. I might go wit'out suppeh, and I'll still be livin' in a slum, but I can afford to take a gamble on a horserace."

"It still isn't a very economical use income," Cassie reasoned, "Thinking logically, you must realize you'll always lose more often than you win. I don't see the point at all."

"Just you watch," Racetrack grinned ever so charmingly, "You'll see in a minute why it's so addicting."

Cassie doubted it. A horserace had no real purpose; why bother wasting money on such a trivial matter, when the chances of actually winning were so poor? The race began, and instantly, the crowd surrounding her starting calling out encouragements to their favorite contenders and cursing the opposing jockeys with a vengeance, Racetrack joining in vehemently. To Cassie's surprise, the red horse Racetrack had pointed out earlier pulled ahead of the pack, barely a second before the finish. Racetrack was on his feet in an instant, whistling and yelling himself hoarse.

"Did'ja see that? Geez, whatta finish!"

Cassie looked around, bemused. Almost everyone in the arena were standing, shouting angrily, or celebrating the win. During the race, Cassie had felt the emotions run high at the climax contest. She sensed the excitement, and had even been part of it, for a moment. But then she remembered what a silly thing it was to be excited about. She remembered to keep herself composed and poised in such a public place.

"I don't understand it," She told Racetrack, after he'd taken his seat again, still flushed with excitement. "What is so exciting about a bunch of horses running around in endless circles? Logically—"

"Again wit' that woird." Racetrack interrupted, "Look, Cassie, in the real woirld logic has very little ta do wit' anyt'ing. It's al'right fa' business men an' rich fellas, but nuttin's eveh as _logical_ as ya'd think."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, uh, like you an' me." Racetrack said, thinking quickly of an example. Cassie looked at him quickly. Racetrack elaborated: "You'se lives in one a' those nice big houses uptown. Ya get enough money fa' whatever ya want, clothes, food, anyt'ing. Am I right?"

Cassie nodded. She had never felt so embarrassed of her own station before. _Logically_, she would have thought that Racetrack would be the one embarrassed talking so openly about their disparities in wealth. He was the poor one, after all. Cassie always thought poor people would be ashamed of their misfortunes.

"Yeah. Then dere's me. I woirk fa' me meals everyday, I board wit' seven otheh kids in a one room place in downtown Brooklyn. But the only difference between us is who our parents are. Or were." He added, acknowledging his lack of parentals. "And how much money our parents got. That ain't logic, sweetheart, that's luck." Cassie wasn't sure what to think of this statement. She'd always been taught that the wealthy were on a plane far above the poor tenants and slobs living downtown. For Racetrack to so confidently proclaim that the only difference was the parents they just happened to be born to.

"Of course it's logical." She said defensively, "My father works very hard to earn his money. That's why my family is so well-off."

"So my parents didn't woirk hard?" Racetrack arched both eyebrows. Cassie blushed again. She had quite meant to imply that. It didn't seem to bother him too much though; on the contrary, he looked amused by Cassie's rose-colored version of the world. "So ya think it's all about hard woirk. Lemma ask ya sumptin'. Do _you_ woirk hard? Nah." He answered for her, "Ya don't even gotta job. Me sistah's gotta job. She woirks hard. She ain't rich; she's livin' wit' me an' anudder six boys. All'a us are woirkin' hard jus' ta suhvive. But _you_ don't gotta woirk at all, 'cos ya had the good luck a' bein' born rich. It ain't a mattah a' logic; sooneh or lateh, it all boils down ta luck."

Cassie wasn't sure what to say to that. No one had ever spoken to her like that. She was used to having things sugarcoated and genially worded. Or better yet, not having anything properly explained to her at all. Cassie's parents habitually left her in the dark. She was much better at doing what she was told without hearing the reasoning behind it. Now along came Racetrack, with his outlandish ideas about the poor being as good as the wealthy. Cassie's eyes wandered around the stands, taking in the motley crowd. The beggars and drunks and hookers. Of course Cassie was better than them. She was in a class above all of them.

* * *

"Where's Cassandra?" Henry McClellan asked in a voice of great concern, "Mrs. Arden, do you know where she might have gone?"

The grown ups in the box looked around, realizing for the first time that Cassie was not among them. Mrs. Arden immediately became distraught, agonizing over her daughter's whereabouts.

"Didn't anyone see when she slipped off? I told her she was not to wander off without a chaperone. If she needed to use the powder room, she should have alerted me! She's probably gone and gotten herself lost!" Mrs. Arden looked absolutely terrified, "Or worse, kidnapped by one of those scoundrels lurking in some dark corner! Oh, Jonathon, I'm feeling quite faint."

Mr. Arden looked impatient with his wife's melodramatic damsel-in-distress act. It was a very old routine by this time. Besides, he didn't want to worry about his daughter; he'd rather watch the races. "Now, Althea, I'm sure Cassie's fine. She probably just made trip to the ladies' room. We'll wait a few minutes to see if she returns before we call out a nationwide search."

"I'll go looking for her, Mrs. Arden." Henry so selflessly volunteered. Without waiting for an answer or a thank you, Henry left, out in search for his lost fiancé.

* * *

It had taken three more races, and a little cajoling from Racetrack, but Cassie was soon on her feet, cheering with the rest of them. Somewhere in the past two hours, Cassie had forgotten all thought of looking distinguished and so high above the rest of the racetrack's observers. Between Racetrack's impudent charm and fervor for the sport of racing, (not to mention the energy of the crowd) Cassie found it difficult not to be won over by the excitement. Dignity forgotten, she pumped her fists in the air, and even let out a whistle through her fingers, a skill which Racetrack had spent a good half hour teaching her.

"See, ya put these four fingehs in ya mouth, and ya push back ya tongue. Like this." He had explained to Cassie, having difficulty demonstrating this while talking, "And then ya tighten up ya lips and blow as hard as ya can—ya know you've got a good whistle when the guy in front a' ya turns around ta tell ya off fa' whistlin' in his ear… it's okay if some spit flies out, that happens…"

Cassie couldn't remember the last time she'd had so much fun. It was amazing how quickly she had abandoned her usual concerns to cheer on the horses that sprinted across the tracks. There was just something about this boy... Something about Racetrack; his enthusiasm for everything in life was just so infectious, Cassie would have been missing so much if she ignored it.

"Hey, Cassie, I think ya should probably be gettin' back." Racetrack said after more than two hours, as he checked his pocket watch, "Ya friends is prob'ly wonderin' wheah ya went."

She was reluctant to leave, but Cassie knew Racetrack was right. She should get back before someone realized how long she'd been gone. No doubt her mother would call in the National Guard if she thought something had happened to Cassie. Racetrack and Cassie backtracked under the bleachers, down the narrow hallways and up the stairs, walking briskly.

"I doubt anyone's even noticed I've gone," Cassie said, making a face.

"How could anyone not notice _you?_" Racetrack's eye glinted again, and Cassie felt her face grow warm.

"That's an awfully forward thing to say to a lady," She said disapprovingly. Now that she was back in the upper class seating areas, she felt she ought to be a little primmer.

"Ya say that like it's a bad thing." As they strolled down the long hallway toward Cassie's box, he lightly brushed the back of his hand against hers. It was a slight gesture, but obviously intentional. Cassie's stomach was suddenly housing a hundred butterflies.

"Cassie!" The voice came from the opposite end of the hall. Cassie jumped, more than a little unnerved. It was Henry. He caught up with Racetrack and Cassie, a badly acted looked of relief projected on his face. Giving Racetrack a suspicious look, he pulled Cassie a step away from the poor, grimy boy.

"Thank God I found you! Where did you run off to?"

"She was jus' lost, sir." Racetrack answered for her, reading Cassie's frightened look. She was silently having a panic attack. Henry had seen her walking with some low class rascal. He would certainly tell her mother. She would be in for it. She would be punished and shamed for certain. She would have, that is, if Racetrack wasn't such a quick liar.

"Ya see, miss? I knew we'd find him again." He told Cassie in a bright voice before turning back to Henry, "She got turned around tryin' ta find her seat again. It's pretty easy ta do in this place. I was jus' helpin' her back to her box."

The story seemed to fly with Henry. His shifty look disappeared, and he nodded curtly to Racetrack.

"Well, thank you very much young man." Racetrack rather resented being referred to as young man by a boy only five years older than himself. Henry dredged through his pockets, bringing up a fifty-cent piece. He offered it to Racetrack. "For your trouble."

"No, thanks. It was no trouble." Racetrack shook his head, not taking the money.

"Really, boy, take it." Henry insisted.

"No, thank you," Racetrack repeated icily, "I don't want it."

Henry withdrew his hand bearing the fifty-cent piece and nodded to Racetrack. Then he escorted Cassie down the rest of the distance of the hallway, towards their box. Racetrack watched them go. He might have stood midway down that corridor for much longer, had he not remembered that he still had to mop up those floors in the South entrance before going home.


	4. Colloquy

Racetrack was home late that evening. The others had already cleaned up dinner and were now getting ready for bed. Racetrack shrugged off his coat, listening to the lazy nighttime colloquy. 

"…Yeah, so when the boys found out I used ta shine shoes, Skittery started callin' me 'Boots' and it jus' caught on." Boots finished as Racetrack took a seat on the patch of floor that he had claimed as his bed. Racetrack had walked into the middle of a conversation revolving around nickname origins. A common discussion topic among newsies… or former newsies.

"What about you, Lunch?" Spot asked Lunch Money, who was sitting a much closer to Spot than Racetrack would have preferred. "Where the hell did'ja pick up a name like 'Lunch Money'."

Lunch Money laughed. "Why don'tcha ask Race?"

"Ugh, this story…" Racetrack muttered under his breath while Kid Blink and Jack sniggered. Did they have to still make fun of him over this? He had been eight years old, for God's sake. It's unreasonable to expect a child to resist the temptation of gambling... not that Racetrack was good at resisting that temptation as a young man either.

"Well, back when Race jus' started woikin' as a newsie," Kid Blink began in a reminiscent tone, "Our Little Racetrack had trouble keepin' a hold a' his money."

"Even when he was wearin' his knee pants an' livin' at his granny's, he'd take all the money he earned sellin' papes an' gamble alla it away on poker games an' marble tournaments." Jack chuckled. Racetrack rolled his eyes.

"He never won enough dough ta buy hisself lunch. So his grandmudder made Race give all his lunch money ta his five-yeah-old sisteh ta keep for him until lunchtime, because _she_ was responsible enough not ta gamble it all away." Blink jumped in, "An' everyday, about noon, we'd all be headin' down ta Tibby's, and Race would run off yellin' 'I'll meet ya dere, fellas, I gotta get lunch money!'"

"Only instead a' bringin' back money, I'd make him take me along ta Tibby's." Lunch Money said, taking over her own story, "I wouldn't give him any of his money unless I gotta go eat wit' the newsboys. An' then Jack an' Blink started callin' me Lunch Money, since that's how Racetrack referred ta me when he'd go ta find me."

"I'd neveh a' guessed that Lunch Money was once more reliable that Racetrack." Spot smirked. Lunch Money laughed, and affectionately kissed Spot on the cheek.

"Your turn." She insisted, "What's the story behind 'Spot'?"

"Yeah, how didja get that name?" Jack asked curiously, "I'se neveh hoird the story befoah."

A chorus of "Me neidder"s followed Jack's words. Spot rolled his eyes, making it quite clear that he did not want to divulge that particular piece of information. It wasn't exactly a coincidence that no one had ever heard his nickname story.

"Forgetta 'bout it." Spot told them, frowning, "I ain't tellin' nuttin'."

He put on his famous leader-of-Brooklyn-glare, and most of the boys shut up or tried changing the subject, but Jack raised his eyebrows, evidently still expecting Spot to speak; Lunch Money and Kid Blink exchanged inquisitive glances, annoyed that Spot wouldn't spill.

"C'mon, Conlon," Jack pressed, "Just do it. Why ya called 'Spot'?"

"I ain't tellin' ya," Spot repeated irritably.

"Maybe it's 'cos he can always find the_ right_ spot." Lunch Money suggested, grinning slyly at Spot. Boots and Crutchy groaned, nauseated, and Kid Blink pretended to gag. Jack and Mush gave Spot congratulatory smirks; Racetrack of course, nearly choked on his own saliva and stuffed his fingers in his ears.

"Ugh, do you'se two _mind?_" Racetrack asked dramatically. Then, in an aside to Jack he muttered: "I think my ears are bleedin'."

"I like Lunch's explanation." He said, smirking again, "Let's jus' stick ta that story."

"Speakin' a stories," Jack decided now would be a good time to change course, if only to prevent Racetrack from having a heart attack, "What's your story, Race?"

"I think that's a pretty obvious one, Jacky-Boy." Racetrack rolled his eyes, "They probably call me 'Racetrack' 'cos I'se always gamblin' an' hangin' around at the tracks--"

"No!" Jack interrupted impatiently, "Not that. I ain't an idiot. I mean, why were ya tanight? You'se was lateh than usual."

Racetrack smiled smugly. He'd been looking forward to telling the boys about how he'd spent his afternoon. It was always double points to charm a high society doll. The other boys would be duly impressed by his score, however innocent and superficial it had been. Scamps like them did not often associate with girls like Cassie Arden. So Racetrack gave the account of his afternoon, adding the details of the flirting that had gone on in the afternoon with boastful flourishes. Why he was so enthusiastic about the afternoon he'd spent with Cassie, Racetrack did not know. It had been, sure, but it wasn't like anything had happened. Normally, he would not talk on so long about an encounter with a female that hadn't even resulted in a long session of kissing, or getting a hand up her shirt. But he found he could not say enough about the time he'd spent with Cassie.

"Careful, Race," Spot warned, looking amused by Racetrack's barely controlled glee, "Don'tcha go gettin' mixed up wit' those rich bitches. Nuttin' but trouble."

Racetrack joined in the barrage of jokes following this proclaimation, but he soon became quiet as the conversation shifted to other matters. He had heard the truth of Spot's words, and took note, but found it curious that anyone would expect Racetrack and Cassie to have any sort of relationship beyond their chance meeting that day. Racetrack recognized it for was it was: a fleeting instant; one of the little things in life that broke up the monotony of day to day life. He would probably never see her again. But he still had to wonder. These things were always much more complicated than they appeared. After watching Spot and Lunch Money's relationship evolve, Racetrack would have been crazy not to realize that.

He had to laugh at himself when he realized what he was thinking. Cassie had probably already forgotten about him. It was a chance meeting. New York was a big city. The chances of running into her again were odds even Racetrack would have bet on. So he let himself forget about Cassie. New York was a big city, alright. But they lived in a small world.

* * *

Cassie felt nothing short of disgust with herself that evening. At least, that was how she was supposed to feel. Any respectable young lady would be mortified to spend an afternoon at a racetrack with some working class boy with deplorable grammar and an even more scandalous venacular. Thoughts such as these were Cassie's motivations behind her stiff and prim manner upon first meeting Racetrack. She quickly fell back into her old habits when she returned to the company of her parents and the McClellans, despite finding herself caught up in the magic of the exciting afternoon at the races. It was only a brief lapse in judgement, Cassie decided. Just a nice adventure, something she'd never done before. There was no need to make a fuss or alert anyone to the truth of where she had been that day.

She brushed off the incident and carried on. The rest of the week was familiar routine; lessons in the morning from her private tutor, tea in the afternoons with the wives and daughters of well thought of businessmen. Cassie was nearly seventeen, and therefore the only words she ever heard coming out of her mother's mouth involved marriages and grand weddings and who was engaged to whom. Henry McClellan was quite a catch, according to Althea Arden and the many envious mothers of Park Avenue looking to match their own daughters. Cassie had stopped caring about getting married when she was about fourteen years old. Whoever her parents matched her up with was good enough, she supposed. It wasn't like there was anything she could do about it anyway. It was getting to be Cassie's motto for life: Don't care, just go with the flow, don't get excited.

"Henry McClellan certainly is a fine young man." Cassie's mother remarked airily at the Thurday tea they shared with Mrs. Gammon and her daughter, "He'll be the image of his father when he gets older."

Cassie didn't much like the idea of that.

She allowed her attention slide in and out of focus as Mrs. Gammon and Mrs. Arden prattled on. Cassie and the young Gammon girl were on the edge of their seats, apparently at rapt attention. As far as Cassie could tell, Miss Gammon was engrossed in their mother's chitchat. Most young ladies of Park Avenue lived for gossip. Cassie guessed that meant she lived for gossip too, as she was a young lady the better half of society, so she made a very good show of listening. Despite this, the only time Cassie's ears pricked was at the mention if a name she had not heard in a very long time.

"...Yes, that one." Mrs. Gammon was saying, "Conlon, wasn't that the name? I'm sure _you'd_ remember Althea. ...Dreadful boy, and what he's up to now..."

Cassie jumped inwardly. She leaned forward in her chair, hoping the women would backtrack and repeat the news of the 'dreadful boy'. Cassie looked back and forth between the two women. She couldn't be thinking of the same Conlon. Andrew Conlon was dead. He'd been dead for years. He couldn't be 'up to' anything. He was dead. To Cassie's increasing aggravation, neither Mrs. Gammon nor her mother elaborated, and only exchanged dark, knowing looks, and she knew better than to ask about Andrew. It was part of being the perfect daughter: don't bring up awkward subjects. Keep discussions to weather and girly gossip. Nothing to make her parents uncomfortable. And Andrew Conlon was definitely a subject to avoid.

Strange, how things so far in the past can change everything. Strange, how the future is so often dictated by the slightest actions. Cassie had no idea how vindictively these circumstances could sting until the following Saturday, when she found herself once again at Sheephead Races.

* * *

_Author's Note: So, I finally got Lunch Money's story out there. It must be confessed that, originally, I did not have a story behind her name. I actually thought of it when I was watching the special features on the Newsies DVD, when Kenny Ortega was saying how Max Casella used to teach the little kids to gamble and they kept losing their Lunch Money to him. I liked that for a newsie name. And I get really sick of those names like Rainbow or Blossom or Lightning or Icicle. Many FOC names are too girly or too cool to fit in with names like Kid Blink and Racetrack and Spot. Lunch Money had to be one of the guys. Er, yeah. Doubt anyone really wanted me to carry on so long like this, but whatever. Never ask me for an explanation. You will learn more than you wanted to know. _

_Well, I hope you're all somewhat curious about the futures of the former newsies, and I'll see you in Chapter 5. Things are about to get a little more complicated. Once again._

_--Schroe Dawson_


	5. Enemies of Friends of Friends

It was all Cassie could do not to stand up and whistle through her fingers the way Racetrack had taught her. She'd made a little bet with herself concerning the outcome of the race, and the horse she had rooted for came through for her. Below her, the cheap seats erupted into a storm of commotion. But, high above the riffraff, like an aristocracy seated upon thrones, the McClellans and the Ardens applauded in a dignified manner, throwing heartily disapproving looks to the untouchables cheering in the stands.

Another Saturday at Sheepshead. Cassie would have dreaded the outing, if Racetrack hadn't gotten her so hooked on racing the previous weekend. As it was, the stiff, quiet way the upper classes enjoyed the horse races were comparatively dismal against Racetrack's colorful and emphatic brand of viewing a race. When that boy had cheered during the races last week, he jumped around like an escaped maniac and hollered like a newsie shrieking a headline involving some sordid scandal. When Cassie's parents and the McClellans watched the races, they showed little emotion. Cassie had to wonder if Racetrack and Mr. McClellan were watching the same sport, such was the difference in their reactions. After so long, the near-silent atmosphere of the box had Cassie entranced in a state of boredom even the exciting races couldn't cure.

Cassie sank into a stupor while Mrs. Arden and Mrs. McClellan discussed The Wedding. The official announcement of Henry and Cassie's wedding had come out that week, and the grown-ups could talk of nothing else. Fortunately, all that was required of Cassie was to smile and accept the many 'Congratulations' bestowed upon her by the various neighbors around Park Avenue. Henry drifted in two conversations: dividing his time between earnestly discussing the stock market with Mr. McClellan and Mr. Arden, and listening assiduously to Mrs. Arden and his mother chatter about The Wedding.

Neither conversation suited Cassie, who would have sworn she'd nodded off, had she not noticed a new presence arrive at about half-past noon.

"'Scuse me, sirs, heah are ya drinks. A single-malt whiskey an' a scotch neat, did I get the ordehs right, mista?"

"Yes, thank you young man." Mr. Arden accepted the box-service order, passing the whiskey to Mr. McClellan. Cassie looked to her left, where the transaction was taking place, and her mouth dropped open in a most unflattering way. It was Racetrack Higgins! Cassie supposed she shouldn't have been surprised to see him (he _did_ work at Sheepshead, after all) but she was, nevertheless. After accepting his tip from Mr. Arden, Racetrack turned to leave. He glanced back at Cassie, performing a double take. The impertinent boy caught her eye and smirked. Without further ado, he shut the box door behind him, disappearing from sight.

Cassie waited thirty seconds at best before excusing herself to the ladies room. _What is wrong with you, Cass?_ She chided herself, _What sort of lady are you, jumping at the chance to spend your afternoon with some working class gambler? Your mother would be horrified, you know that._ Cassie ignored that voice (it sounded an awful lot like Althea Arden's voice) and listened to her brain's second opinion: _What harm can it do? I'm bored with the overtly dull McClellans. I'll just talk to Racetrack for a few minutes._

"Racetrack!" She called after him. He was already at the end of the wing, ready to descend the staircase leading toward the main entrance. "Racetrack!"

He didn't hear her. Cassie ripped the clean satin gloves off of her hands and shoved her fingers into her mouth. Trying to ignore the unpleasant feeling of drool on her fingertips, Cassie blew as hard as she could. A pure, piercing note echoed down the hall. Racetrack turned.

"Aftehnoon, Miss," Racetrack grinned, "May I assist ya in anyway?"

They walked toward each other, meeting halfway down the corridor. The den from the cheering outside vibrated the outside wall, and the ice cream vendor stationed at one corner made Cassie feel very venerable; she was surrounded by people, people who could snitch to her mother about who she was associating with.

"Have you got a noose around here?" Cassie asked sarcastically, though still in her usual prudish tone, "Maybe some rat poison?" Racetrack laughed. Cassie was startled. People didn't usually laugh when she spoke. Of course Cassie normally kept her more cynical observations to herself.

"I'd hate ta assist in the suicide a' such a goirgeous doll. What a waste that would be."

"Oh, no, the poison's for me," Cassie explained, trying to pretend that Racetrack's last comment hadn't made a rosy blush creep into her cheeks, "I'd much rather kill _them_. If I don't, they're sure to finish me off first: a slow death by dullness!"

"Ya family's really that bad?" Racetrack made a face.

"They can make a _horserace _boring." Cassie said dramatically. Racetrack reacted every bit as dramatically, with only a hint of self-mocking swagger.

"No!"

"Yes!" Cassie giggled at Racetrack's astounded expression, "'Ah, Jonathon, look at that thoroughbred'," Cassie put on a low, stodgy voice in a ridiculous imitation of Mr. McClellan, "'He eats only caviar and has won every race this side of the Mississippi. I myself have bet one million dollars that he shall win the next four races.' … They don't even cheer or whistle when one of their bets wins." She and Racetrack were both indignant at this, "It isn't any fun at all."

"I didn't know you'se was allowed ta have fun." Racetrack shrugged, raising his eyebrows questioningly.

"Of course I have fun," Cassie said irritably.

"When I met ya last week, ya seemed like you'd neveh had a good time in ya life." He started walking back toward the top of the stairs, his original path. Cassie followed him.

"Do so have fun." She informed him cordially, "There's always a party to attend and charity banquets to make appearances at—"

"Ya eveh had a hot dog?" Racetrack cut Cassie's tangent off with a seemingly random musing. Even hearing about fancy to-dos on Park Avenue forced Racetrack to stifle a yawn. It was clear Cassie's idea of amusement was somewhat skewed.

"I beg your pardon?" She sounded a little disgusted.

"Ya eveh had a hot dog?" He repeated, raising his eyebrows expectantly as he continued, "C'mon. Wanna blow this joint? We can go grab a bite, and I'll deliveh ya safely back ta ya box befoah anyone notices." He was pushing his luck; Racetrack knew it. But a true compulsive gambler rarely plays it safe.

"Oh, no. I can't, Racetrack, I ought to be getting back."

"It ain't gonna take more than a coupl'a minutes." Racetrack reasoned, sensing Cassie's indecision. It wouldn't take much to convince her. Indeed, he only had to take a few more steps down the stairs and glance back, giving Cassie an imploring look. She looked hesitant, but Cassie followed Racetrack and was once again transported to the world of the street rats; again submersed in the passion for which they lived their little lives, again marveling at those who had nothing lived like those seated in the mean.

They exited the arena, Cassie's heart beating hard, though from fear or pure exhilaration at her momentary freedom, she was unsure. Outside, the March weather had turned clement under the still gray skies. The streets were bustling with pedestrians, running to and fro, going about their business.

Racetrack kept up a sprightly conversation as they walked toward the vendor whom Racetrack had indicated as the seller of the best hot dogs in all of Brooklyn. Cassie listened to Racetrack's account of the misadventure (one involving an improper use of eggs) that he'd shared with some of the kids he was living with (Curiously named friends: Kid Blink, Mush, and his little sister Lunch Money... After giving it a bit of thought, Cassie figured that a boy called 'Racetrack' was hardly likely to have friends with ordinary names.).

"...Yeah, lemme tell ya, it was a lucky thing Blink an' Mush didn't get caught or they'd a' been fired fa' shoah. And then how'd any a' us eat? Still, it ain't a bad way ta spend an aftehnoon, eggin' the kitchens down dere at O'Connells'."

"That horrible," Cassie argued, "'Egging' someone else's property? It's be such a mess to clean up."

"Ya ain't lived 'til ya've smashed raw eggs against a public establishment's window." The look in Racetrack's eyes carried more than a touch of mischief, "I'll take ya sometime, show ya I'm right."

Cassie laughed off this suggestion as though it were ridiculous (well, it _was_) and asked a question she'd been puzzling over since Racetrack mentioned Lunch Money, "And your sister, she lives with all of you boys?" She seemed genuinely shocked that Racetrack would allow such a scandalous arrangement, "Don't you worry about her in such close quarters with a bunch of--" She stopped talking abruptly. A lady wouldn't finish that sentence. Of course, a lady wouldn't have started that sentence.

"Yeah, shoah, I used ta feel like I spent most a' me life worryin' about Lunch Money," Racetrack admitted, "That goil gets herself inta more trouble than a' goil has a right ta get inta." Reading the expression on Cassie's face, he hastily amended, "No, nuttin' like _that_. She's anyt'ing but a whore; I just worry she'll go out and get inta a fistfight wit' some kid twice her size. But I trust the fellas. Blink an' Jack an' Crutchy and them are all like brudders, none a' them would eveh lay a hand on Lunch... Spot's anudder story a' course. Lunch Money is Spot's goil, see," Racetrack added unhappily, "Don't gemme wrong, Spot's a good guy, I'd just like him a whole betteh if he wasn't beddin' me little sisteh, ya know?"

"Yes, I can imagine." Cassie cleared her throat uncomfortably. From what she had heard about Racetrack's friends, they were nothing of the creed Cassie usually kept company with. The boys nicknamed Boots and Crutchy sounded sweet, if dreadfully unsophisticated, but the others Cassie had some trepidition about. Kid Blink and Mush seemed to delight in defacing public property, and got into a fair amount of tomfoolery, though the way Racetrack described them, they were both essentially good natured. But the remaining three of Racetrack's gang were the ones that Cassie was most uncomfortable with. According to Racetrack, Lunch Money was nothing what a proper young girl's picture ought to be. She was a reckless, gutter-mouthed urchin-- spending her nights in ways a girl of barely fifteen years should not be engaging. Lastly, the two 'leaders' of the bunch, Jack and Spot, sounded nothing short of delinquent criminals.

"Wait heah fa' minute, will ya, Cassie?" Racetrack instructed, as they reached the corner. Cassie nodded and stayed on the sidewalk, trying her hardest to blend into the scene of street traders and racing fans congregating outside Sheepshead. Racetrack wove expertly across the street, digging in his pocket to extract a few pennies to pay the man at the hot dog cart with.

Cassie's eye wandered around the square as Racetrack waited in line. Racetrack certainly did have some colorful friends. But she felt uneasy. At the first mention of a boy with the nickname 'Spot', Cassie had begun to speculate. Hearing two references to Andrew Conlon in one week was unnerving, considering he'd been presumed dead for the last four years. First she'd heard the name 'Conlon' come up at Thursday's tea, now she hears of a boy who also went by Andrew's old nickname. Was it possible that he was alive? _No._ Cassie answered her own question, _No. There must be hundreds of boys with the nickname 'Spot'. Andrew is dead, Cassie. It would be an impossible coincidence if the Spot Racetrack is talking about really was Andrew Conlon._

No sooner had those thoughts formed in her brain, then Cassie felt a tap on her shoulder. She turned around, her heart in her throat. She'd heard too many stories about people getting mugged and young girls being raped to be anything but paranoid on the streets. It wasn't a giant thug standing behind her though; it was a girl. She looked close to Cassie's age (maybe a little older). She was shorter than Cassie, but gave the impression of great stature. Her hair was what caught the eye though. It was yellow. Not blonde, but yellow and shining, putting Cassie's honey-colored tresses to shame. The girl wore rogue on her lips and cheeks and looked like what Mrs. Arden might call a 'shameless hussy'.

"You'se was talkin' ta Racetrack Higgins." She said to Cassie. Cassie nodded, unsure whether or not the girl was asking a question or stating a fact, "I was hopin' ta run inta him. He's neveh far from the tracks. D'ya know if his sisteh's wit' him?"

"Lunch Money?" Cassie asked, the mere ring of her voice betraying her naïveté, "No, she isn't here with Racetrack."

"Damn." The girl spat, "I figgered ol' Race wouldn't lose sight a' his sisteh fa' so long... he's normally pretty protective a' her. But I gotta bone ta pick wit' Lunch... thinks she can get away so easily. Ya know, Lunch Money thinks Spot Conlon's her boy now?"

Most of this rant was nonsense to Cassie; she only understood two words out of this strange girl. But those two words were enough.

"_Spot Conlon?_" She gasped, "Spot Conlon, how do you know Spot Conlon?" Cassie's brain was having trouble processing this. It wasn't true.

"How do _I_ know Spot?" The girl sneered, looking Cassie up and down in a clearly disdainful glare. How would Spot know some fancy upper-class girl like this one? She raised her eyebrow; Spot's charm and sexual magnetism must have been even more powerful that even the blonde had thought, if he'd gotten a respectable lady like Cassie into bed at some point in his career. "How the hell do _you_ know Spot?"

Cassie told her. In a space of four minutes, Cassie spilled the secrets that Spot had labored to keep quiet for years. Without knowing what possibly could come of revealing the story of Cassie and Spot, Cassie told the person most likely to exploit these carefully guarded secrets: Ritz Barkley.

* * *

_Author's Note: ...And you thought Ritz was a bitch in "Once and For All"..._


	6. The First Secret

Ritz could not believe her good luck. Information like this had to be handled very carefully-- it wouldn't do for Cassie to give the game away to Racetrack the minute he returned with the hot dogs.

"Look, uh, Cassie's the name ain't it?" Ritz didn't wait for Cassie's confirmation before carrying on. Racetrack was already heading over, so Ritz had only seconds to speak with Cassie in private, "I really don't think that the Spot Conlon you'se is talkin' about is the one me an' Racetrack know. There's gotta be a billion kids named Spot. And even more kids named Conlon, what wit' all them Mickies comin' in from Ireland." Cassie took offense at Ritz's use of the derogative; she was third generation Irish after all, but let Ritz finish, "So I wouldn't say nuttin' ta Racetrack about how ya know him, 'cos our Spot wouldn't take too kindly to bein' the subject a' rumors. Ya betteh make fa' shoah it's the right Spot."

"It has to be him." Cassie argued, "At least... it seems like it would be. Though, Andrew was rumored to be dead." She added uncertainly. Maybe it wasn't the same boy. It did seem unlikely.

"Racetrack'll take ya back ta meet Spot, if ya want." Ritz suggested, maybe a little too quickly, "They'se livin' jus' around the corneh. Then ya could see fa' yaself whedder it's the same Spot or not. Heya Race." She greeted Racetrack smoothly as he returned.

"Hi, Ritz." Racetrack said slowly, surprised to see Ritz Barkley, of all people talking to Cassie. He handed Cassie a a greasy bundle of papers. Incased was a long sausage of meat, wrapped in a crispy roll of French bread. "Ya neveh need ta eat anudder type a' food, once ya've tried these." Racetrack claimed through a mouthful of meat and bread; he had wasted no time in digging into his own meal.

"Well, I'se was jus' passin' t'rough." Ritz said in a mockingly casual voice, "Cassie, wasn't there sumptin' ya wanted ta ask Race about?"

With a devious look at Racetrack, Ritz made her quick departure. As anxious as she was to see how this would play out, Ritz knew her work was finished. For now. Besides, she had some money to earn, walking the streets.

Racetrack and Cassie watch Ritz go, both puzzled by her sudden appearance and equally swift departure. Racetrack looked at Cassie, who was very much enjoying her hot dog. She'd never tasted anything quite like it; the flavors were obvious and simple, but so delicious. She chewed and swallowed before speaking, remembering good etiquette.

"The boy you were talking about earlier-- Spot?" She said, trying to keep her voice from shaking, "His name is Spot Conlon?"

"Yeah." Racetrack shrugged.

"I know him." She said seriously.

"I ain't exactly surprised." Racetrack laughed, to Cassie's confusion, "He used ta be the most famous an' respected newsie in all a' New Yawk. Prob'ly everywheah else too. But that was back befoah the damn newsstands an' delivery boys. Now he's just a very well known juvenile delinquent. A' course ya've hoird a' him."

"No." Cassie shook her head, "I haven't heard of him. I_ know_ him. I think it's him at least."

Racetrack's face clouded over. There was only one reason why girls knew Spot. Typical. He didn't question Cassie's relationship with Spot, convincing himself that it didn't matter anyway, and it would only depress him to learn the details.

"Ya _think_ it's him?"

"Well, I'm not sure." Cassie told him, realizing she wasn't making very much sense.

"He's back at home, if ya wanna see if he's the kid ya thinkin' of." Racetrack said, "It's only a coupla blocks ta our place."

"If it is Andrew," Cassie murmured, more to herself than to Racetrack, "I _would_ like to talk to him."

"C'mon then." Racetrack led the way, showing Cassie the way to Spar Street. It was a long walk, mostly in tense silence. Racetrack wasn't exactly happy about this arrangement. To be completely honest with himself, Racetrack had to admit that he would be very jealous if it turned out that Cassie and Spot had been previously involved. Wasn't it enough that Spot was doing his little sister? Did he have to have a history with Cassie too? Did Spot have a long complicated history with every girl in New York?

Racetrack didn't know exactly how to categorize his own relationship with Cassie. Certainly nothing romantic (they'd only met twice, after all) but Racetrack did enjoy being around her, as annoyingly proper and naive as she was. Racetrack liked showing her how to live outside the glass case in which Cassie had existed in for so long. Racetrack tried to ignore his glum mood, convincing himself (and rightly so) that he and Cassie were only friends, if that, and he shouldn't feel any indignation at her possible relationship with Spot.

* * *

"C'mon, guys what are the chances Snydeh an' his boys'll bust in heah? They don't got any idea wheah we went; we'll be fine." Jack was arguing. By this time, it was an old argument. It was always Spot and Jack against the rest of the gang, insisting that it would be perfectly safe for the two of them to venture out and get jobs and do something besides keep house while everyone got to work. It was murder on Spot and Jack to stay indoors and not take part in the daily adventures on the streets of New York. But it was too risky; Spot and Jack were too valuable to Snyder for them to pass unnoticed.

"Ya know Snydeh, Jack." Crutchy said patiently, "If eidder of you'se is seen by a coppeh, we'll all be busted." It was a good thing both Crutchy and Lunch Money were given Saturdays off; someone had to keep an eye on the former leaders of Brooklyn and Manhattan, as they were going absolutely stir-crazy. Lunch Money had long ago abandoned the conversation; she contented herself with rolling her eyes and watching Crutchy trying to talk sense into the other two boys.

"Hey fellas," They fell silent at the sound of a voice outside the front door and the three sharp knocks that followed, "It's Race, lemme in." Jack got to his feet and went to unlock the door. He held the door open for Racetrack and Cassie, who looked somewhat terrified of her current surroundings. Spar Street was a far cry from the sterilized environment of Park Avenue.

"Where'd ya pick up the goil, Higgins?" Jack asked giving Cassie a charismatic and flirtatious half-smile. Spot looked up at Jack's words, noticing Cassie for the first time. The color drained out of his face, and his heart stopped beating.

"Cass?" He gasped. Cassie Arden was not someone Spot had banked on ever seeing again.

"Andrew!" Even as she laid eyes on him, Cassie could hardly believe it was him. She'd been so sure Andrew had died years ago. Seeing him now boggled her mind; it was like seeing someone back from the dead. Spot was in a sort of state of shock, neither speaking nor moving. Cassie ran to hug him, overcome with excitement at seeing her friend again.

"So, Race, who the hell is this?" Lunch Money muttered to Racetrack, raising an eyebrow suspiciously. Like her brother, she figured Cassie was an old girlfriend of Spots, and, again like her brother, she was not very happy about this.

"This is Cassie Arden, the goil I met last week."

"Ugh, that hoity-toity bitch?" Lunch Money made a face.

"C'mon Lunch," Racetrack said in an undertone, "She can't help bein' rich anymore than we can help bein' broke."

Lunch Money made a skeptical noise, and waited for Spot or Cassie to elaborate on how they knew each other, as did the rest of the room. To contribute to the horrible feeling in the pit of Spot's stomach, Cassie wouldn't stop carrying on. She held him at arms length scrutinizing him like a mother looking over her son after he'd been playing in the mud.

"Andrew, look at you! I can't believe it's you! I haven't seen you since--"

"Whoa, whoa." Jack interrupted "Spot, how d'ya know a goil like her? Race, looks like ya weren't the only piece a' street trash this dame's been interested in."

Spot cringed. Cassie looked slightly confused, "Street trash...?" She laughed, figuring out exactly how misinformed Spot's friends were, "They don't _know_? Andrew, you never told them--"

"Cass." Spot said sharply, jerking out of Cassie's grasp, "Shuddup!"

"Andrew, haven't you told anyone where--"

"Cass, you say one more word, I swear ta Gawd..." Spot growled, grabbing Cassie's wrist firmly. He kept her in a tight grip, not hurting her, but giving her the warning. He let the threat hang in mid-air, hoping Cassie would take the cue to be quiet. She did. Racetrack's reaction wasn't quite as passive.

"Spot, what's a' matteh wit'choo?" He demanded, striding to Cassie's side. Racetrack gave Spot a rough shove; Spot let go of Cassie's wrist and turned to glare at Racetrack. The room held it's breath. Both boys looked daggers at each other, and the surrounding children expected a fight to break out. Crutchy and Jack looked a little nervous. Spot Conlon was not a boy to pick a fight with. Racetrack knew that. Everyone knew that. Well, Lunch Money hadn't entirely figured that out, but she was a special case. The spectators waited for Spot to soak Racetrack within an inch of his life. Instead, a rare thing occurred: Spot's eyes dropped to the floor, acknowledging Racetrack's victory over this particular disagreement.

"Spot, what's goin' on?" Lunch Money asked, unsure whether she really wanted to hear the answer. Spot just shook his head, his eyes darting between Cassie and Racetrack.

"Nuttin'." He said, "Cass, d'ya mind if I have a woird wit' ya?" Spot gave Cassie a dangerous look, as though daring her to refuse his suggestion. She just nodded and followed him outside, leaving the others in a state of shock and befuddlement.

Once they were out on the street and safely out of earshot, Spot opened the conversation, speaking through clenched teeth, "Cass, whaddya doin' heah?"

"What am_ I_ doing here?" Cassie almost laughed, "Andrew, what are _you_ doing here? I can't believe it's you. I can't believe you're alive-- living _here_, after all this time."

"What? Didja think the poor little rich boy couldn't suhvive the oh so horrid streets?" He spat contemptuously.

"I wasn't the only one who thought you were dead--"

"Good." Spot said heartlessly.

"Andrew!" Cassie was shocked, "Why on Earth would you want everyone to think you were dead?"

"Not everyone thinks I'm dead." Spot told her quietly, "I know some a' them know I'm still around; Snydeh made shoah a' that. Me mudder knows I'se livin' somewheah in Brooklyn."

Cassie winced. She'd always pitied Mrs. Conlon. Her son a runaway delinquent, a disgrace, her husband dead and gone. Which reminded Cassie: "You're father died after you left, you know. Your mother's all alone now."

"I know." Spot's tone was very businesslike, "I woirked as a newsie, Cass, ya think I didn't heah about a millionaire gettin' murdehed? Ya think I didn't squeeze as much scandal outta that headline as I could? Sold two hundred fifty-seven papes that day, enough for a real dinneh and hookeh. Best favoh me fodder eveh did me."

"You don't consider twelve years of feeding and clothing you, and providing you with a home, not to mention all the luxuries anyone could ask for, a favor?" Cassie asked, indignant on behalf of the Conlons, who had always worked hard to ensure their son had the only best. And what had he done? He threw their love and attention right back in their faces.

"No, I don't." Spot said defiantly, "I don't consideh that a favoh; all them nice things me fodder bought me was ta make him look good, ta prove ta everyone on the block that he made the most money. Livin' dere, me parents had me whole life planned out fa' me. I only existed ta be a credit ta their name. Needless to say," he added, pronouncing his words with care, with vicious relish in every syllable. "I failed dismally."

"Your father--"

"Don't tell me about me fodder, Cass." Spot interrupted coldly, "In case ya couldn't tell, I'se finished bein' a Conlon. I ain't been fa' years, don't even try to talk me back inta it. I've spent the last four years tryin' ta forget wheah I came from."

"Then why are you wearing that?" Cassie indicated the small, silver key hanging around Spot's neck. Spot closed his fist around it, clutching it so tightly the sharps edge dug into his palm.

"What about it?"

"It's engraved. Don't think I didn't notice it. 'S. Conlon'." Cassie smiled. She knew Spot hadn't abandoned his old life so readily. "I remember the talk of how expensive those were, how much money your father put into the detailing of your house. That's your house key you've got around your neck; you never meant to leave forever."

"A' course I meant ta leave fa'eveh. It ain't my house key." Spot told her adamantly.

"I don't believe you." Cassie said, amazed at her own boldness. She would never dream of being so frankly honest with anyone else. Even this confrontation between her and her childhood best friend was taxing.

"Ya really think I fuckin' care what ya believe?"

"If your parents could hear you now." She scolded, horrified at the terrible words coming out of Spot's mouth, "Like your parents were some third class immigrants straight off the boat, instead of the son of a distinguished businessman who worked his way to the top so he could give his son a better life."

"What I had on Park Avenue wasn't a life, Cass." Spot snapped. In four years, Cassie hadn't changed a bit. She was still spouting her parents opinions like a parrot. The wind-up doll. The perfect child. "What I was livin', what you'se is livin' ain't no kinda life."

"Listen to you." Cassie was now blinking back tears, "Talking like some street rat, an urchin; you're better than that, Andrew."

"Better than Racetrack?" The question came spitefully, seemingly out of nowhere.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Ya neveh specified exactly what you'se was doin' heah wit' Race." Spot told her smugly, "_He's_ a street rat, born an' bred. This ain't the foirst time you've snuck away from you're high society tea parties or whateveh ta run around wit' Racetrack."

"That is neither here nor there." Cassie said primly, her face deep crimson. Racetrack meant nothing to her; he was just a grubby little scoundrel, whom she'd met by coincidence. She forced herself to agree with that statement, unable to distinguish the difference between the truth and what Park Avenue expected to be the truth. "I'm only here because I heard him mention Spot Conlon, and I wanted to see if it was you... by the way, I cannot believe you're still going by Spot, you always hated it when I called you Spot." She laughed, and murmured reminiscently, "Park Avenue's Little Spot of Trouble."

Spot was not amused, "Look, they asked me my name when I arrived at the Brooklyn Lodgin' House, an' I couldn't tell 'em my real name, an' your stupid nickname was the foirst thing that came into my head... If ya were gonna shorten 'Spot a' Trouble', couldn't ya at least a' called me 'Trouble'? It woulda been a betteh name fa' the leadeh a' Brooklyn."

"Spot, how often did we have that very discussion?"

"Too offen." Spot glanced back at his flat. Lunch Money and Racetrack were waiting there. He was not looking forward to explaining this away. "Al'ight, Cass, ya can't tell Racetrack or any a' them the truth, got it? I'm still jus' Spot Conlon, the street rat, ya promise?"

"I will not lie to them."

"Does Racetrack know you'se is, ah, engaged?" Spot asked smoothly, "You'se is neah seventeen, I assume ya're engaged."

"Yes, I am." Cassie replied carefully, "And, no Racetrack doesn't know."

"Ya want me ta tell him?"

"I wouldn't care in the slightest." Cassie said airily.

"Liar." Spot accused. He paused, working out the details of his proposition. "Fine, if ya really don't care whedder Racetrack knows you'll be married ta some rich fella in the nex' year, then by all means, tell me friends all about my scandalous past. But, if ya tell on me, I'll tell on you."


	7. A Storm Brewing

"That's blackmail!" Cassie gasped. Spot shrugged apathetically. He knew it was blackmail, and he couldn't have cared less.

"I know." He told her tonelessly, "But if you'se is neveh gonna see Race or Lunch or Jack or any a' us again, why blow my secrets? Why tell them? It wouldn't affect your life if my friends knew wheah I came from. But it has the potential to affect my life in a big way."

"If I'm never going to see Racetrack again, why would it matter if he knew I was engaged?" Cassie shot back. Spot exhaled. The girl made a fair point. But Spot could see no other way to stop Cassie from opening her mouth and telling Lunch Money everything he never wanted her to find out. They had to go back inside. Things must have looked suspicious enough to the rest of the gang. And Boots, Blink and Mush would be coming home soon; it wouldn't do for them to walk in on the current conversation.

"Fine, Cass." He said menacingly, starting back toward the pathetic, one-room flat, "You tell 'em whateveh ya want. But if ya do, I will tell Race."

Cassie laughed nervously. Spot really must have been desperate. He was usually much smoother about his negotiations, Cassie remembered that much about him. She didn't care if Racetrack found out she was engaged. Why should she? Cassie didn't plan on seeing him again. And Spot's friends deserved to know the truth. He had probably spent years lying about his parentage and higher status.

They reentered, trying not to let their nerves show on their faces. Spot didn't even bother to knock before pushing the front door open. The tension inside the room dwarfed the tension Cassie and Spot had experienced outside. Crutchy and Lunch Money were both sitting. Crutchy on a low wooden stool near their makeshift table; Lunch Money was sitting on the floor, jiggling her foot impatiently. Racetrack was on his feet, pacing the room compulsively. Only Jack seemed at ease, comfortably leaning against one wall.

Lunch Money got to her feet as Cassie carefully closed the door behind her. Racetrack stopped pacing and stood at his sister's side. He opened his mouth to speak, but Lunch Money nudged him into silence. Everyone expected Lunch Money to overreact here, to give Spot a good lecture or to at least try to deck Cassie. But she didn't say a word. She just gave Spot a look-- a look that everyone knew meant: _Spot Conlon, you'd better have a good explanation for whatever the hell just happened. _Spot read her look immediately and launched into his story:

"Me an' Cass jus' used ta know each uhdder." Racetrack and Lunch Money exchanged skeptical looks.

"An' how d'ya know her?" Racetrack asked, bracing himself to hear about their long romantic history.

"I used ta woirk fa' her family," Spot cut in before Cassie could speak, "Befoah I was a newsie. Years ago. Ain't that right, Cass?"

Spot looked sideways at Cassie. That one glance at her expression told Spot everything he needed to know. He didn't need to worry about Cassie telling anyone anything. Ever since they were little kids growing up together, Cassie always did whatever she was told. She did what was expected of her. And right now she was expected to lie.

Cassie nodded, affirming Spot's lie. She couldn't understand why she didn't speak up, expose Spot's blatantly false statement. It would be so easy. Maybe if his friends found out about Spot's other life, they would disown him, and he could move back to Park Avenue. Cassie would like that. But she didn't open her mouth; she just arranged it in a smile. That smile quickly disappeared a she gasped, realizing she'd completely lost track of the time.

"Racetrack what time is it?" She asked frantically. Racetrack fumbled for his watch, just as panicked as Cassie was.

"We gotta go." He said urgently, not saying the actual time aloud, "I'll walk ya back, Cassie."

They would be lucky to get back to the tracks before the last race ended... and who knew if the Ardens and the McClellans hadn't left earlier? With quick, over-the-shoulder farewells, Cassie Arden and the mysterious whirlwind she'd brought along disappeared from Spar Street, Racetrack in tow.

* * *

"Spot, what the hell was that?" Jack asked, the first to talk after Racetrack ad Cassie left. 

"What the hell was what?" Mush asked in a chipper tone, having just walked through the front door. Kid Blink and Boots followed, discussing the proper method of lifting merchandise from a street vendor. The three boys had missed the entire incident, and Spot did not want to explain it. Fortunately, Lunch Money gave him the perfect excuse to leave all explanations to Jack and Crutchy.

"Spot, we're going for a walk." Lunch Money told Spot, offering him his coat. It wasn't a question. The other boys snickered or glanced at each other knowingly. Lunch Money forcing Spot to go on a walk either meant Spot was in a lot of trouble, or he was about to get very lucky. Spot took his coat, resigned. He knew it was the former. They left without another word, leaving the other five to smother in the puzzlements of the day.

"Ya lied." Lunch Money said in monotone. She walked slowly, with her arms folded.

"I did not." Spot insisted. He dodged in front of her, walking backwards so they were facing each other. "When did I lie?"

"Ya said ya woirked fa the Cassie goil's family. That ain't true, Spot."

"Yeah it--" He began convincingly.

"Spot."

"Fine, I lied." Spot admitted coldly, "So what?"

"So what?" Lunch Money stopped walking, "Whaddya mean 'so what'? Spot, what's goin' on?"

"_Nuttin'_," Spot stressed the word, "It was years ago, Lunch, four years ago. I swear, Cass ain't an old girlfriend or nuttin'. I jus' used ta know her when I was a kid."

Lunch Money did not look satisfied by this response, "But what--"

"Lunch Money," Spot interrupted, "Please, drop it." He gave her an imploring look. Lunch Money frowned, biting back a slew of choice words. So she said nothing; she around and started back home. Spot sighed and rolled his eyes. He jogged after her.

"C'mon, Lunch! It's no big deal, it's nuttin'." Spot said again.

"If it was nuttin', then ya could tell me what it was." Lunch Money reasoned.

"I can't, okay?" He snapped, "If it were sumptin' ya had ta worry about, I would tell ya. But it doesn't affect eidder a' us at all, ya got that Lunch?"

She shrugged her shoulders, still angry. Spot gave her the opportunity to protest and chew him out. Instead she waited for Spot to speak again. The silence streched.

"Trust me, Lunch." Spot pleaded, "It's nuttin' ta worry about; we ain't neveh gonna see Cass again anyway."

* * *

"C'mon, c'mon, we gotta hurry!" Racetrack yelled back to Cassie as they wove through the crowded gates. They had run from Spar to Sheepshead in less than ten minutes. It had to be some kind of record. Racetrack grabbed Cassie's hand so they would get lost in the evening crowd of race goers, and together they dashed toward the boxes, taking the stairs three at a time. Their hearts were pounding from both the intense cardio exercise and the fear that they would be caught. 

"I'll be in so much trouble." Cassie fretted, gasping for breath.

"No ya won't; we'll make it."

"What if we don't?" She asked miserably as they rounded the last corner.

"Then you'll be in so much trouble." Racetrack agreed.

"Comforting."

At last they skidded to a stop, just outside Mr. McClellan's box. Peering through the small window in the door, Racetrack was relieved to see the Ardens still comfortably seated in the box, watching the very last race. No one seemed worried or anxious; they hadn't even realized Cassie was missing. Racetrack felt a stab of pity for Cassie. He couldn't imagine having a family that took so little notice of him. Of course, Racetrack had little experience in families; his parents died of fever shortly after Lunch Money was born, and his grandmother raised the two of them until she too passed away eleven years later. But he had his friends. And Racetrack's friends would sure as hell notice if he went missing for four or five hours.

"Ya safe." He whispered, "They'se still in dere."

"Really?" Cassie asked excitedly, standing on her toes to see for herself. She sigh a breath of relief. The world would have absolutely come to an end, had she been caught. "Do you think I should just slip in?"

"Nah." Racetrack shook his head, "Wait out heah fa' the rest of this race, then hide behind the door when they leave. You can jus' join the group in the hallway and they'll neveh even know you'se was gone."

"Alright. I'll wait then." She agreed. Racetrack nodded. He glanced down the hall. It was devoid of any racetrack enthusiasts, apart from himself, obviously. He knew he had to go. He couldn't wait with Cassie forever. But Racetrack found he was having trouble picking up his feet.

"It was nice meetin' ya, Cassie. Good luck."

"Good luck?" Cassie giggled.

"Yeah, good luck. In life." Racetrack shrugged. He did wish her all the luck in the world, with a family like that.

"You don't think you'll see me again?" She asked, looking into his face earnestly. Earlier that day, she had been certain that she would never see Racetrack again. Now she didn't like that thought very much.

In answer Racetrack raised his eyebrows, looking incredulous.

"I know." Cassie said quickly, "I'm sorry. You're right; I probably won't get to see you again."

"It was a pleashoah." Racetrack took her hand is his. Cassie tingled. "Thanks fa' a great time. I'm glad I met ya."

And he brought Cassie's hand up to his mouth and delivered an innocent peck on the top of her hand. Electricity shot through both of them. Their eyes met, both very confused about what was happening. A minute ago, they'd been mere acquaintances, or so Cassie had thought. She wasn't so sure now, with the way Racetrack was looking at her.

Racetrack had never been one to worry himself over questions about why something was happening or what if something else happened. He liked to go with the flow, and not waste timing asking what-ifs. So he pulled Cassie closer and kissed her. A real kiss this time. Racetrack's hands slid down Cassie's sides, memorizing the curve of her waist. Cassie leaned in ever closer, surprised to find her own fingers in his coarse black hair. My, she was living dangerously today.

The cheer of the crowd started both of them. The race was over. The kiss ended in accordance. Racetrack and Cassie broke apart; Racetrack smirking, Cassie looking shocked.

"Ya neveh been kissed like that by a woirkin' class scoundrel, have ya?"

"I've never been kissed like that by anyone." Cassie said breathlessly. A flush crept into her cheeks.

"And?" Racetrack smirked playfully. Cassie thought a moment.

"It was nice."

"Glad I could help. See ya, Cassie." With a final grin, Racetrack walked away, a definite spring in his step.


	8. The Second Secret

The atmosphere on Spar Street was very strained in the following days. Spot and Lunch Money weren't exactly fighting, per say, but they said little to each other and Lunch Money made a point of busying herself with work. No one else in the house was very pleased with Spot either: Jack seemed annoyed that Spot was keeping something from the rest of the group, but he realized how hypocritical he would sound if he accused Spot of lying about his past; Crutchy and Boots just wanted everyone to get along again; Kid Blink and Mush were simply dying of curiosity. Racetrack too, was curious. Spot and Cassie clearly had a history that they were keen to keep under wraps, and he wanted to know what was what. He thought he did, at least.

It was eight days after Spot and Cassie's argument on Spar Street. Eight long, unhappy, irritated days. Racetrack ate his breakfast (porridge and half an apple) at a more relaxed pace than usual. Kid Blink and Mush were seated across from him, very disgruntled as (with their lack of dishes and cutlery) they were stuck sharing the last clean drinking glass. All three had gotten the day off from work, as had Boots (who was still asleep) and Lunch Money (who was dressing behind the curtain the boys had set up for her).

They ate in silence, partly because there was nothing to say, partly because they didn't want to wake Boots, Spot and Jack. Spot and Jack had gotten into the habit of staying up late and sleeping until noon, to the envy of the rest of the group. Only when Lunch Money appeared from behind the curtain did the spark of conversation ignite. She filled a bowl of porridge, as casual as anything, and took a seat on one of the wooden stools next to Racetrack. Instead of the usual dark green skirt she'd "borrowed" from her brief stint working as a laundress, Lunch Money wore a pair of brown wool trousers and some very familiar red suspenders. The three conscious boys goggled at her.

"What?" She asked, noticing the incredulous looks her friends were giving her.

"Can I please not be heah when Spot wakes up an' realizes ya've stolen his pants?" Mush asked nervously.

"What?" Lunch Money said again, "I'm sick of the damn skoirt. I ain't even goin' anywheah today."

Racetrack rolled his eyes. Just when he thought the whole problem of Lunch Money's affinity for trousers would vanish. Naturally she would be difficult. She was difficult about everything. Right on cue, Spot sat up, rubbing his eyes, his hair tousled from sleep. He sat yawning for a moment, not realizing that Blink, Mush and Racetrack were watching him intently. He tossed aside his blanket and started rifling through his things, finding his shirt and shrugging it on. While he buttoned the shirt, he looked around, as though he'd misplaced something. Mush snickered. Spot looked up. It took a moment for him to connect the dots.

"Lunch!" He stood up. Lunch Money glared at Mush.

"Nice goin'."

"Yeah, 'cause he wouldn't a' noticed that his pants were missin' if I hadn't said nuttin'."

"Lunch Money, gimme the pants." Spot said, annoyed.

"C'mon, I got the day off. I'm sick a' wearin' that skoirt."

"You got the day off?" Spot asked. Lunch Money nodded. He grinned, "So why does eidder a' us need pants?"

Racetrack felt a wave of nausea, "Do you'se two jus' wait fa' me ta be in the room befoah ya say things like that?" He gave Spot a murderous look, "Ya could at least give me some warning."

* * *

Lunch Money eventually surrendered the pants, after a respectable amount of teasing and flirting. Racetrack could have lived without the flirting, but everyone else was relieved to see Spot and Lunch Money getting along again. True, the couple bickered unendingly under normal circumstances, but usually they're arguments were trivial and easily resolved by a quick kiss or a flattering comment. The arrival of Cassie had caused tension much more serious than usual. But after more than a week with no word from Cassie, Lunch Money was beginning to believe what Spot had said when he told her that Cassie was nothing to worry about.

One person, however, was very unhappy at the lack of contact with Cassie. That would be Racetrack, of course. He couldn't stop harping on the two afternoons they'd spent together. And when he kissed her. At the time, it had been an impulsive action. She was there; he was there, so he kissed her. But now Racetrack had to see her again. He figured maybe she would come back to the track sometime, but so far he hadn't seen the Arden's in the McClellan's box at all. It wasn't just that she was gorgeous. Behind her proper manners and clockwork orange persona, there was an interesting, fun girl fighting to get free. And there was a mystery about Cassie that Racetrack found irresistible. Of course, if he knew all the mysterious details of Cassie's life, he might have felt differently.

The day was spent lazily sitting around at home, talking of nothing in particular. The conversation drifted from a reminiscent chat of the strike that summer nearly two years ago, to a thoroughly outraged discussion of the newsstands, and eventually they settled down to play a round of cards. They played on Jack's suggestion, but when the boys looked to Racetrack for the deck of cards, they realized he was gone. And he'd taken Spot with him.

* * *

"What?" Spot asked impatient with Racetrack, who had dragged him out onto the street.

"D'ya know wheah Cassie lives?" Racetrack asked, "I'm mean, ya did woirk fa' her family. So ya said anyway."

"Yeah, I think I remember wheah she lives." Spot said tonelessly, his face devoid of emotion, "Why d'ya wanna know, Race?"

"I--" Racetrack paused. He didn't really want Spot to be clued in to how he felt about Cassie, but what choice did he have? Spot was the only one who could tell Racetrack where to find her. "I wanted ta see her."

"Forget her, will ya Race?" Spot said angrily, "She ain't gonna be interested in a boy like you. She's richie, a bitch. She'll end up marrying whoever her parents pick out for her, an' ya can bet that they'll pick the fella wit' the most money."

"Who said anyt'ing 'bout marryin' her?" Racetrack asked defensively, "I jus' said I wanted ta see her."

"Sure." Spot snapped, "Take it from me, Racetrack, ya don't wanna be mixed wit' Cassie. It's easieh if ya have nuttin' ta do wit' her." he turned away, but Racetrack bolted around Spot, blocking the doorway back inside.

"Ya know, I coulda said the same t'ing when ya started chasin' me sisteh, but--"

"As I remembeh, ya _did_ tell me ta have nuttin' ta do wit' Lunch Money," Spot said coolly, "An' woirse."

"Right." Racetrack cringed, "But c'mon, Spot! My point is, if you'se is havin' sex wit' me sisteh, I think I'm entitled ta ask ya a favoh every once in a while. I just want ta talk ta Cassie."

"Fine. But ya betteh make this quick."

* * *

"So how d'ya know her in the foirst place?" Racetrack asked for the umpteenth time and the boys walked quickly through the East Side.

"D'ya wanna see your goil or not?" Spot glared at him, not answering the question for the umpteenth time, "Here." He added, as they turned onto Park Avenue. Racetrack's mouth literally dropped open. The street was clean and orderly. There was no soot on the buildings, and the impossibly huge houses sat neatly in two rows, lining both sides of the street. There were long driveways up to each house, and even trees planted in yards in between the manors.

"She's in that one." Spot indicated a house, third from the end of the block. The boys carefully infiltrated the avenue. Their presence went undetected as the boys slid in and out of the shadows until they staked out a good hiding spot: up a tree in the Arden's backyard. It was an old tree, the leaves just barely green and formed in the spring weather. The knots of the bark and the creepy twisting branches provided an opportunity for the boys. Racetrack scurried up the trunk first, Spot right behind him. They were concealed by the new green foliage and from there; Spot began to outline the next plan of action.

"We gotta figger out which room is hers." Spot whispered, "I ain't sure, but I remember that her window was at the back of the house, so we're in an ideal position really."

"But how--?" Racetrack began.

"Shh!" Spot cut him off sharply as the sound of a screen door shutting alerted them to a new presence. The sounds of two voices wafted up from garden below. One voice was male, the other obviously female.

"Now, Althea, how can you be having second thoughts? Henry is a fine match for our Cassie. The wedding is already set for June." The male voice said. Racetrack almost fell out of the tree. _What? _Racetrack thought, _She's already engaged? She might have mentioned that!_ Of course he knew he had no chance at any sort of future with Cassie, but it was awfully nice to dream. Racetrack had never even thought of a long future with Cassie, maybe just a few more Saturdays at the tracks. Maybe just a few times out. But even that illusion was broken with the news of her engagement.

"I know, I know." The female voice answered, "But there are better matches. When I think of how that arrangement with the Conlons slipped away from us..." This time it was Spot who almost fell out of the tree. Racetrack jerked his head toward Spot, his eyes disbelieving. He had just heard the name Conlon, had he?

"Althea, Andrew ran away years ago, he's probably dead by this time. Henry McClellan is a much better match for our daughter than that delinquent-- what was that name the other children always called him?-- 'Spot' Conlon."


	9. Be Careful, Racetrack Higgins

_Author's Note: Hi, here's chapter 9. I'm just giving you all a heads up that I won't be able to work on the next chapter for a couple of weeks, so this fic will be going on a (hopefully) brief hiatus. In the mean time, enjoy. _

_

* * *

_

Spot froze. There was only a very small chance that Racetrack had gone temporarily deaf, and hadn't heard the last words out of Mr. Arden's mouth. Actually, there wasn't even a small chance. Racetrack's head snapped toward Spot, giving him a shocked look. It was lucky that the Ardens were still talking below the tree the two boys were situated in, because other Racetrack would have let Spot have it. As it was, Racetrack was barely able to contain himself for the short time it took Mr. and Mrs. Arden to finished their conversation and retreat indoors.

"Did I just heah that right?" Racetrack hissed the moment the back door had closed behind Mr. Arden, "They was talkin' about _you_, Spot, weren't they?"

Spot shrugged, not looking at Racetrack.

"_Henry McClellan is a much better match for our daughter than that delinquent 'Spot" Conlon?_" He repeated Mr. Arden's words, slowly connecting the dots. "That's how ya know Cassie? _That's how ya know Cassie_?" He absolutely incensed. Spot had been lying all this time! Racetrack could barely believe it to be true. "Ya used ta live _heah_? You'se was a lousy high society bastard? An' ya were _engaged_ ta _Cassie_?"

"Keep your voice down." Spot implored, glancing at the house through the foliage that was keeping them hidden, "And I didn't live heah... I lived two houses oveh. I don't see what the big deal is; so I'm a runaway. Blink ran away from home too. So did Mush."

"Blink an' Mush didn't live on Park Avenue." Racetrack said coldly, "You'se has been leadin' us ta believe you was just a tenant's kid like the rest a' us. Ya acted like ya parents had just gotten off the boat from the ol' Emerald Isle!"

"Hey, I neveh lied, technically." Spot snapped, forgetting to be quiet.

"Technically? Whaddya talkin' about, Conlon?" Racetrack snorted derisively.

"I neveh said nuttin' about my family. I neveh lied, I neveh made up a coveh story. I jus' let ya make your own assumptions about my background." Spot said angrily, "It ain't like I'm Jack; wasn't he the one tellin' people his folks were out west, when really his ma was dead and his fodder was doin' time?"

"Ya think you'se is gonna be able ta justify what ya've done?" Racetrack sneered, "For Gawd's sake, you'se was engaged ta Cassie! Engaged!"

"We weren't engaged," The other boy corrected, "It was more a betrothal. Any, what difference does it make? I ran away years ago."

"It does too make a difference an' ya know it! ...Lunch Money is gonna kill ya." Racetrack realized, "Lunch Money is gonna actually kill ya until ya die."

"No she ain't." Spot growled, "She ain't 'cause she ain't gonna find out about this."

"Ya can't keep lyin' ta her! Ya can't lie ta _everyone_!"

"Well I'm gonna." Spot said stubbornly, "An' I will kill ya until _you_ die if ya tell anyone what ya hoird." He added threateningly.

"You boys are awfully lucky that you're talking beneath _my_ window." Spot and Racetrack looked up quickly. Several feet above them, Cassie could be seen leaning out of a window, smiling down at them, "With the two of you making so much racket, I'm surprised mother hasn't come running. Nice to see you again, Racetrack." She added, looking at Racetrack, ignoring Spot. Spot rolled his eyes.

"Now that ya reunited wit' the princess, I'm gonna get back home." Spot said, "Jus' bein' on this street makes me stomach turn." Without another word to either of them, Spot worked his way down to the lower branches before swinging back to the ground. He didn't even hesitate after hitting the ground; he ran as though Snyder himself was after him, disappearing from sight.

"Hey, come down." Racetrack called. Cassie raised her eyebrows, surprised.

"You're mad." She told him, shaking her head and trying not to smile, "Race, you're crazy. I can't go anywhere; it's almost half-past eight."

Racetrack burst out laughing; he couldn't help it. Eight-thirty? What the hell kind of curfew was that? "C'mon, Cassie. Jus' go out the window. Tell your parents you're goin' to bed, then sneak out."

"I couldn't."

"Ya know ya wanna." Racetrack teased, "Nuttin' happens in New York until afteh eight-thirty anyway. It'll be fun." He spoke convincingly. It was so tempting. Cassie said nothing for a minute, considering Racetrack's offer. She watched him. His taunting smirk was nothing short of irresistable.

"Fine." She said, trying to sound reluctant, though her broad smile suggested otherwise. She disappeared back inside. _I'm losing my mind, _Cassie thought to herself as she crossed her bedroom. She hesitated as she reached out to take hold of the doorknob. She was about to tell a flat-out lie to her own parents. She was about to go out after dark with an insolent rogue from a class far below her own station. What was wrong her? Cassie stood in front of her door, weighing her options. She so wanted to go with Racetrack. His impish charm and knowledge of a world Cassie had never experienced was everything Cassie wanted tonight.

"Mother, Father?" She entered the parlor, where her parents were having a cup of tea before bed, "I think I'll go to bed now; I'm feeling rather ill." Cassie put on the damsel-in-distress act she had learned so well from her mother. "So be sure no one comes to bother me."

"Of course, darling." Her mother said sympathetically. Cassie smiled and bid her parents good night. She rounded the corner, into the hallways just beyond the parlor and really did feel slightly ill. Could she really betray her parents trust so easily? _Yes. _A small defiant voice screamed from the depth of her conscious mind. Yes, she could. And she was going to.

* * *

"Let's go." Cassie reappeared at the window, "Now how do I get from here to the ground?" 

"I'll help ya." Racetrack said patiently, climbing a few branches higher. Step by step, branch by branch, he gently assisted Cassie to the ground.

"We survived." Cassie observed drolly upon their return to the good old terra firma. Racetrack laughed.

"Ya sound surprised." Racetrack raised an eyebrow, "Show a little faith, huh? Now then. Times Square? O'Connell's? Irving Hall? Liam's is pretty good-- it'll never top Tibby's, a' course... What's your pleasure? We can go anywheah in New York."

Cassie looked slightly overwhelmed, "Oh my. I wouldn't even know where to begin. Could you recommend somewhere?"

"Shoah." Racetrack nodded, "Let's go ta Irving Hall; Medda'll let us in free. C'mon, we'll flip a car."

"We're flipping _what?_" Cassie sounded alarmed.

"Flippin' a car." Racetrack shrugged, "Look, let's get outta heah, I'll explain."

They stayed in the shadows and cut through back gardens (swanky types didn't have backyards, they had gardens), until they were safely away from Park Avenue.

"Flippin' a car means ya wait fa' a car ta pass ya, then ya run afteh it and climb on the back fender ta hitch a ride." Racetrack said, once they were on a shady-looking back street. He pulled Cassie closer to the curb to wait for a car to come.

"Isn't that dangerous?" Cassie gasped, "What if you fall off?"

"Then I'd skin me knees and hands." Racetrack said, "No big deal."

"Alright, what if _I _fall off?" Cassie nettled.

"You would die." Racetrack said with a straight face, looking down the road.

"Oh, be quiet."

"Well, whaddya want me ta say?" Racetrack laughed, "Kids have been known to fall under the tires and get killed, ya know."

"Really? People actually die doing this?" Cassie was frantic, "You weren't kidding?"

"Nope." Racetrack said in an off-hand manner, "C'mon, heah comes one-- don't worry, it's a truck, those is easieh."

Indeed, a shabby-looking truck wheeled around the corner at a leisurely pace, rolling right past Racetrack and Cassie. Racetrack ran after it, with Cassie right behind him. Racetrack pulled himself onto the truck, climbing onto the fender and then hoisting himself into the bed of the truck. He turned around quickly, seeing how Cassie was fairing. She did beautifully; Cassie pulled herself onto the truck, imitating Racetrack's method and situated herself so that she was sitting comfortably on the truck, her legs swinging over the road. Of course, it would have been very pathetic if the girl didn't succeed in flipping a truck going ten miles per hour.

"Ya suhvived." Racetrack said mockingly.

"The night is young." Cassie answered, still catching her breath. Racetrack laughed.

* * *

"This is it! This is it!" Racetrack said, jumping off the truck. Cassie did the same. They were several blocks from Irving Hall, right across from Tibby's. The restaurant was just closing; waiters stacking the chairs on the tables and the light in the window were dimmed. Racetrack and Cassie walked quickly in the direction of Medda's, Racetrack talking the whole way, pointing out the various locations of the neighborhood, and their significance. 

"That's Bottle Alley, wheah Kid Blink an' Mush used ta sell papes... See, that's the distribution office of _The New York Woirld_. We rioted dere a coupla times durin' the newsie strike. Dere was this one time, when Pulitzer hired a g'damn crib ta soak us newsboys; we woulda been finished if Brooklyn hadn't showed up when they did."

Racetrack stopped talking there. He didn't want to talk about Spot. He was actively trying not to think about Spot. He was trying not to think about the fact that Spot had been lying to everyone for years. He was trying not to think about the fact that Cassie and Spot were once engaged-- or betrothed, if there was even a difference. Which Racetrack didn't think there was. So he put all his questions and thoughts on hold and told himself to enjoy the evening.

"Medda!" Racetrack greeted, once he and Cassie had managed to slip in through the door to the backstage. A woman with numerous red ringlets and attired in a flamboyant vaudeville costume looked up at the sound of her name. She saw Racetrack's smirking face and went to meet them.

"Racetrack Higgins," She smiled, giving Racetrack a warm hug and laughing as he kissed her hand in a gentlemanly fashion, "Racetrack, it's been too long, you hear? I can't remember the last time I saw you back here looking to mooch some extra concessions or to flirt with my showgirls."

"Sorry, Medda," Racetrack grinned apologetically, "There's been kinda a lot goin' on."

"Yes," Medda laughed, her eyes twinkling, "From what I've heard, you and your sister are letting Jack Kelly and Spot Conlon turn the two of you into regular delinquents... Now, Racetrack, who is this fine young woman?" She said, giving Cassie a kind look.

"This is Cassie Arden," Racetrack introduced Cassie, excitedly, "And, Cassie, this is Medda Larkson, the Swedish Meadow Lark. She owns the place."

"Pleased to meet you." Cassie said, extending her hand. Medda shook the hand.

"And you, darling."

"Yeah, I found Cassie wonderin' 'round Sheepshead the other day, that wheah I'm woirkin' now--"

"Why am I not surprised?" Medda interjected.

"An' Cassie ain't neveh seen any vaudeville, so ya mind if we stick around fa' a while?" Racetrack asked, only as a courteous formality.

"Of course, Racetrack, just stay out of the girls dressing room," Medda teased, "And enjoy yourselves. I'll see you kids later; I'm on stage."

With that, Medda brandished the colorful plumage in her hand and turned to step onto the stage, leaving Cassie and Racetrack amid the chaos and panic backstage. Performers, stagehands, candy vendors, all sorts were frantically running around, intent on their own tasks. Cassie had no idea who to look at. It was all so interesting. It was Medda's song that ended up capturing her attention. She and Racetrack watched from the wings as Medda belted out her song. Cassie's gaze strayed out to the audience. They were cheering and whistling. It wasn't dignified, and it wasn't proper, but it was so much more fun. What struck Cassie about the lower classes was the passion that was present in everything they experienced. They played like they had nothing to lose. This was not the first time this had occurred to Cassie. But it was such new concept, it was a thought she could not help but dwell on.

Cassie's eyes roamed from the audience, back to Medda, until they finally landed on Racetrack, standing next to her. In many ways, Henry McClellan was much better looking; he had the classic handsome and heroic features. A chiseled jaw, a straight nose, a fabulously dashing stern look. But to Cassie, Racetrack's face was much more interesting. He wasn't quite dashing; the better word was adorable. Smirks were constantly lurking on his lips and the light in his eyes was mischievous and exciting. Cassie thought she felt a slight chill.

Racetrack glanced at Cassie, catching her staring. He raised his eyebrows and looked at her expectantly. Cassie just laughed. Racetrack looked slightly confused, curious as to what exactly Cassie was staring at. Before Racetrack could protest, Cassie swiped his hat off his head and placed it on her own, on top of her honey-colored locks.

"What do you think? Could I be a newsboy?"

"Absolutely, jus' lose the posh accent an' learn some swearwords." Racetrack laughed. Damn... even in his old, ragged hat, she was stunning. There was nothing that could make Cassie Arden unattractive.

* * *

"I hope you know what you're doing." 

Racetrack turned around. Medda was standing behind him. She pulled him aside, while the jugglers onstage captivated Cassie's interest. He gave Medda a questioning look.

"Whaddya talkin' about, Medda?" He asked.

"This girl-- Cassie? Isn't she a little high class?" Medda said, giving Cassie a sideways look, "Where'd you find her?"

"Sheepshead." Racetrack shrugged, "Really. But, yeah she lives on Park Avenue. So what?"

"I hope you aren't planning to go out with her again," Medda lectured in a motherly way, "You know you aren't going to get anything you want in a relationship like this. You'll only get hurt, Racetrack. This girl's life has been planned out for her, and you aren't included in her plan."

"Come on, Medda." Racetrack shook his head, "Don't worry about me. Ya know me: play like I got nuttin' ta lose."

"You just be careful, Racetrack Higgins."

"I will be, Medda. I'm always careful."


	10. That Nauseous Feeling

_Author's Note: By an exciting turn of events, I will have internet access over the next few days. So yeah. False alarm, I've got all the time in the world to write. Enjoy, loves._

_--Schroe

* * *

_

Cassie sat up. She looked around her room groggily. Regrettably, Racetrack wasn't there with her. That was just a dream. Rubbing her eyes, Cassie remembered the night before; the vaudeville entertainers, talking with Medda, teasing Racetrack and flipping cars. By the time Racetrack delivered Cassie back to Park Avenue, she could almost understand why Spot had run away to live in that world forever. But now she was back. She was back home, again in her normal life, realizing exactly how disgraceful her behavior the previous night was. Cheap vaudeville shows? Rowdy entertainment halls? She had lied to her parents, for the love of God! And worst of all, she'd even permitted Racetrack to give her a kiss good night. More than "permitted" him to do so. She was in the instigator, actually. For the third time in three weeks, Cassie had let Racetrack's charm sweep her right off her feet; she'd gone along with every one of his harebrained ideas, risking being caught by her parents and what had it gotten her? _The most fun I've ever had in my life._ The defiant voice in her head answered. She stifled the thought quickly, and climbed out of bed, ready to start her safe, obedient, dignified day.

"Now, Cassie, darling," Mrs. Arden was saying an hour later, during brunch. Cassie and her mother were sharing tea and cakes as a midmorning snack, so Althea Arden decided it was a perfect time to lecture her daughter, "The announcement of your engagement to Henry has already reached the ears of most of our neighbors. Mrs. McClellan and I talked it over; this week you two will be seen everywhere together. The more appearances you make as a couple, the better the families look. It's very fashionable to be seen at events and charity balls. And for heaven's sake, Cassie," Mrs. Arden added, "Do try to show a little more affection towards the boy. Every girl on Park Avenue would kill to be in your place; we want to let them know that Henry is well off the market. When I see the two of you together, you're as stiff as a board and so uncomfortable. Relax, dear, enjoy yourself; you're to be married!"

Cassie nodded mutely, barely hearing her mother's words. She was preoccupied with the events of the previous night. She was not as hung up on Racetrack, thinking of his free nature and soft lips (although those thoughts did penetrate every so often) as she was concerned with the entire business. It was a dangerous, silly game that would not only jeopardize her reputation, but that of her family. With a start, Cassie realized who she was turning into. Spot Conlon. If she carried on seeing Racetrack, she would stray down the same path as Spot did. And she couldn't do that. Cassie had never forgiven Spot for running out on his family. The spoiled, selfish boy hadn't even thought about his poor family or how his actions might affect everyone else in his life. Cassie refused to sacrifice her family's honor for a boy she hardly knew. Even the boy who'd given her her first kiss... first several kisses.

Mrs. Arden chattered on, about the wedding, what Cassie would wear that night, what Henry was likely to wear, how handsome Henry was, how charming and dashing. Cassie's heart sunk lower with every word. She tried to remain focused on Henry, and how she would survive the evening with him. But she found she could not stop dwelling on Racetrack, and how she would survive the evening without him.

* * *

"Heya, Lunch. How ya doin'?"

Lunch Money looked up to see her absolute least favorite person standing just inside the millenary. Ritz tossed her signature goldilocks and flounced over to the counter where Lunch Money was scribbling a list of figures, hoping the shop was at least breaking even.

"Can I sell ya a hat?" Lunch Money asked flatly. She had reached the point in her day when she wanted to vomit all over the next snooty lady to come in for a hat. Plus of course, she despised Ritz Barkley with every fiber of her being.

"Oh, no," Ritz twittered in an annoyingly high-pitched giggle, "Nuttin' like that. I just wanted ta catch up wit' me old friend Lunch Money."

"Yeah, right," Lunch Money snorted, "Don't try ta kid anyone, Ritz, ya hate me as much as I hate ya. Whaddya want?" She didn't even wait for the answer; she just turned around and started toward the storeroom.

"I wanted ta see how you'se was dealin' wit' the whole Cassie thing." Ritz's words stopped Lunch Money in her tracks. She wheeled around to face Ritz.

"How d'ya know about Cassie?"

"Spot told me, a' course," Ritz lied convincingly.

For a moment, a hurt look flashed across Lunch Money's face. Spot had told Ritz, but not her? "Ya liar. Ya don't know nuttin' about it."

"He didn't tell ya? He didn't tell ya how he knows Cassie?" Ritz grinned malevolently, "..._Oh_. But I guess I could see why he wouldn't want _you_ ta know."

"What's that s'posed ta mean?" Lunch Money snapped. Ritz had to be lying. Spot wouldn't have told Ritz something he hadn't even told Lunch Money. "Spot doesn't keep secrets from me." She knew that wasn't true, but there was no way she was admitting that to Ritz.

"Shoah. Then tell me, what's the deal between Cassie and Spot?"

"I dunno. Spot said Cassie didn't matter anymore."

"And ya believed that?" Ritz laughed, "Please, Lunch, didja really think Spot was gonna change?"

Lunch Money didn't say anything. For once, the idiot girl was making sense. Lunch Money forced herself not to think about it; she wasn't doing this again. She didn't want to question Spot about this. She wanted to trust him. But there was truth to Ritz's words. Was Spot really giving up his skirt-chasing reputation for her? _Yes._ She told herself firmly, _He loves you, Lunch Money; Ritz is just tryin' ta mess wit'cha head. Ignore her._

"Believe whateveh ya want, Lunch, but I'm tellin ya," Ritz said, drifting toward the doorway, "If ya wanna hang onta Spot, look out fa' that goil. Cassie might be more a' threat than me."

With that, Ritz flounced back out the way she came. Lunch Money groaned and put her head down on the counter. The world would be a much better place if she were the only girl existing in it.

* * *

This time, Cassie's mother was keeping a firm eye on her this time. They were in front of important company, and Althea Arden was very concerned with how her daughter would impress the wealthy and dignified. Mrs. Arden and Mrs. McClellan watched their children smugly throughout the evening. Henry and Cassie were constantly seated next to each other, a most picturesque couple. Cassie felt very much like she was on display, but it didn't bother her until the party was seated at Sheepshead. Her other experiences at the tracks were always fun, and rarely tainted by Henry's presence, but tonight Henry's focus was not on the races, or on the dull grown-up conversation. He was focused on her. Henry could not keep his hands away from her. His arm rested around her shoulders, now around her waist. During the horses races, Henry slipped his hand into Cassie's and laced his fingers between hers. She put on a very pleasant facade for her parents and the McClellan's, as if she were rapturously in love with Henry.

"Yeah, yeah, see ya Rigby, Donaldson." Racetrack called to his co-workers as he left the betting counters. His shift was finally over, and he headed toward the front entrance. It was crowded; the last race had just ended, and all the race goers were going home. Racetrack expertly weaving his way through the crowd. He was almost through the doors when he felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned around. Cassie stood just behind him, and had obviously fought her way through the throng to catch up with him.

"Cassie!"

"Racetrack! How _are_ you?" She asked excitedly, hugging him in greeting. So much for her plan to never see him again. She'd glimpsed him in the crowd and couldn't help saying hello. What harm could it do? Racetrack was caught off-guard, but returned the hug happily.

"What? How've I been since las' night?" He laughed.

"Oh, right." Cassie said, realizing she had seen him less than twenty-four hours ago.

"Cassie?"

Cassie whipped around and Racetrack took a hasty step away from Cassie. Henry had appeared next to Cassie, giving Racetrack an unfriendly stare. Despite the terrific amount of crowd noise around them, it felt like dead silence as Racetrack and Cassie both racked their brains for something to say. Something to explain why Henry's fiancée had hugged a scrubby Italian street rat, as if they were old friends.

"Um. Henry, you remember Racetrack?" Cassie asked. Racetrack gave her a look, hoping she would shut up. He doubted Cassie would be very good at lying, given her apparent lack of experience in that area. But Cassie continued: "He was the boy who helped me back to _our_ box a few weeks ago?" She intentionally emphasized the word 'our' to butter him up, which worked; Henry smiled smugly. "Well, I got separated from you in the crowd, and when I saw Racetrack, I thought he might be able to help again."

It wasn't a very good lie, but Cassie was somehow able to carry it off, between the subtle flattery and again with the well-learned damsel-in-distress act. Racetrack was impressed, and made a mental note to teach the girl how to play poker; she'd be a natural. Lunch Money could learn a thing or two from her. Not that Racetrack planned to repeat that to Lunch Money.

Henry cast a cold look on Racetrack. Racetrack didn't so much as twitch.

"Funny that you always seem to be around when my fiancée wanders off." Henry said, not smiling, not taking his eyes off Racetrack. Racetrack just shrugged and tried his best to look innocent, even though his gut had just twisted into a knot. He remembered what he and Spot had overheard in Cassie's tree the other day. This was Henry. The man in front of him was the man who was going to marry Cassie.

"Lucky accident." Racetrack shrugged, remaining expressionless.

"I don't believe in luck." Henry said threateningly.

"Then ya prob'ly shouldn't spend so much time at the tracks." Racetrack quipped before he could stop himself. Cassie gave him a warning look; Henry look affronted, but let Racetrack go. He turned away, more than ready to go home and get away from the creepiness that was Henry.

"I'm just glad you're alright. I hate for you to have to mingle with such common scoundrels." Racetrack glanced back over his shoulder, hearing Henry's words to Cassie. As soon as he did so, he wished bitterly that he hadn't looked. Henry was kissing Cassie. And she certainly wasn't protesting. Racetrack looked on bitterly for only a moment, taking in the kiss. It was sweet, and intense in a classy sophisticated way. It was a parentally acceptable kiss, but it held so much emotion. Racetrack actually thought he felt the air disappear from his lungs. Up to this point, Racetrack hadn't known how much he liked Cassie. Now, seeing her with Henry, he finally understood why Lunch Money had felt so miserable when Spot was still sleeping with Ritz.

Racetrack closed his eyes, absorbing the shock that so many people had warned him about. All his friends had warned him: Lunch Money had warned him, Jack had warned him, Spot had warned him numerous times, and even Medda had put her two cents in. And Medda had phrased it perfectly. Cassie already had her life planned out, and that plan didn't include Racetrack. So Racetrack walked home. He walked quickly. If Cassie didn't care, neither did he.


	11. A Stolen Ham and an Old Argument

As proof that Jack and Spot didn't have enough to do during the day, they had spent much of March secretly devising a small adventure for themselves. They'd planned carefully, making their risks as slight as possible, but leaving enough variables to keep enough risk for the heist to be worth it. When they finally put the plan into action on Easter morning, the boys were pleased to finally get an adventure. Even a butcher's shop could provide a setting for mischief. Yes, they'd stolen a ham.

Mush and Blink were the ones who put the idea into their heads to begin with. Everyday, on their way to O'Connoll's, Mush and Blink passed a great window with all kinds of sumptuous looking meats. It was a lovely butchery, but the prices were a little high to spend on an ordinary dinner. If Mush and Kid Blink had had enough sense to mention what a mouth-watering sight the butchery was, they all would have agreed to put aside enough money to make a grand purchase on their Easter feast. But Jack was the only person they mentioned the scrumptious-looking ham to. A major mistake. After all, stealing food for a meal in honor of Jesus Christ was sure to get anyone damned for all eternity. Which was exactly what Lunch Money said when she saw Jack and Spot's prize.

"Ya _stole _a _ham?_ Fa' _Easteh?_" She laughed, "You're goin' ta hell fa' that."

"Yes, but when we get ta hell, we won't be hungry." Jack said, and he and Spot laughed, both very pleased with themselves.

Everyone agreed that, yes, it probably was an unpardonable sin to steal an Easter feast. They agreed that Spot and Jack were beyond idiotic to pull such a foolish and dangerous stunt when they were still hiding out from Snyder and the bulls. But they also agreed that they were hungry, that the ham was perfectly roasted, and that no one would want the ham back anyway, now that Spot and Jack's grubby hands had been all over it.

The holiday was spent with all eight of them happily preparing for dinner. The ham was already cooked, but Kid Blink and Lunch Money started a fire in the fireplace to keep it warm all day. They were soon banished from Ham Duty for absolute incompetence, and Crutchy and Spot (both of whom, it was decided, were responsible enough to look after the ham) took up their posts. Racetrack and Jack went junking near the river and brought back an actual table for them to eat off of. Boots and Mush (and, once they were fired from their original job, Kid Blink and Lunch Money) cleaned every surface and tried to brighten up the flat with dandelions they found growing in between the cobblestones outside. Mush kept trying to get the others to sing while they worked. They told him to shut up until he started a good Irish folk that no one could protest to singing.

It was a real feast. Jack even said a prayer-- an idea Lunch Money and Kid Blink found laughable, especially considering how their feast had been obtained. They all bowed their heads and Jack mangled the prayer:

"...From thy bounty, t'rough Christ, an' wit' the poweh invested in me I now pronounce us hungry..." Jack's prayer caused the Catholic raised kids to look up with raised eyebrows. Racetrack and Spot glanced at each other briefly, trying to keep straight faces, and Kid Blink and Lunch Money actually had to cover their mouths to keep back their laughter. "An' to Our Fodder who art in heaven, my kingdom come, my will be done on Earth an' heaven. Give us this ham, betteh than our daily bread. An' fa'eveh an' eveh, amen."

"Eloquent." Spot commented wryly to Jack as they took their seats. The meal proceeded jovially. It was a holiday after all, and though they'd blatantly ignored Easter mass, they wanted to celebrate. The celebrations turned slightly sour when Jack brought up a subject everyone had hoped would never come up.

"So, Race." Jack said conversationally, "Whateveh happened ta that rich goil you'se was runnin' around wit'?"

"Cassie?" Racetrack did a remarkable job of keeping his tone light and careless, "Nuttin' happened wit' that, a' course. I saw her at the tracks a while ago, but that's it."

"Good to heah that's all oveh wit'." Spot muttered. Lunch Money gave him an annoyed look.

"Why d'ya care so much?" All eyes were on Spot. The previously comfortable atmosphere had been polluted by thoughts of Cassie Arden.

"I don't care."

"I talked ta Ritz, ya know." Lunch Money said shiftily, watching his reaction. Spot's expression only revealed his confusion, so Lunch Money prompted him, "About Cassie."

"Ritz doesn't know nuttin' about Cass." Spot laughed, "What'd she have ta say about Cassie?"

"Nuttin'. Forget it." Lunch Money said unconvincingly. She'd heard everything she needed to. Someone was lying. Lunch Money wasn't sure whether it was Spot or Ritz who was the liar, but she also wasn't sure she wanted to know. She refused to be the jealous girlfriend, overreacting to everything. Overreacting was what Lunch Money did best; it was hard to suppress that natural instinct.

The rest of the meal was eaten in silence. Jack's mention of the girl no one wanted to talk about ruined the mood of the evening. Spot chewed his food slowly, wondering exactly what Lunch Money's conversation with Ritz had entailed. Lunch Money herself was miserably telling herself not to worry, not really believing her own calming thoughts. And poor Racetrack was reminded once again of Cassie. He had focused on not thinking about her for the past couple weeks, hoping to forget her entirely. He hadn't seen her in so long. Racetrack doubted if Cassie even noticed his absence. His gaze wandered absentmindedly from Lunch Money to Spot. He wondered if he should have told Lunch Money about Spot's secret. Racetrack had kept his silence for Spot, agreeing that it would only cause a lot of unnecessary trouble.

It wasn't until after dinner that anyone spoke. Spot grabbed his jacket off the floor and located Lunch Money's as well.

"We're goin' fa' a walk." He said, handing Lunch Money the coat and leading the way outside. Lunch Money cast an impatient look back toward her friends, indicating she'd rather not go, but nonetheless, she followed him.

"What the hell was that?" He asked once the door shut behind Lunch Money.

"What the hell was what?" Lunch Money snapped. Spot didn't answer. He waited for Lunch Money to talk. Which she did, after they walked more than a block.

"Why won't ya tell me how ya know Cassie?" She asked yet again.

"It's a long story."

"I got the time."

"Lunch, c'mon, we've had this conversation already." Spot said, trying to avoid the question, "Me an' Cassie jus' used ta be friends. Geez, Lunch, it doesn't matteh! It's the exact opposite of matteh! It was all years an' years ago."

"Okay, okay. Fine. That's fine." Lunch Money said edgily. Spot cringed. Whenever Lunch Money described anything as 'fine', it usually meant trouble.

"Any chance kissin' ya might get me out of trouble?" Spot asked not very hopefully. Despite the undeniable charm of her boyfriend, Lunch Money didn't even smile.

"I thought I could be okay wit' all these secrets. I thought it wouldn't be a problem. I ain't sayin' I trust Ritz." Lunch Money said slowly, "But I ain't sayin' I trust you eidder. I don't understand why ya can't explain yahself. If ya had nuttin' ta hide, ya'd tell me."

"How many times do I have to tell ya, nuttin's goin' on?" Spot demanded, losing patience quickly. He'd had enough of this interrogation. He couldn't believe she didn't trust him. "Dammit, Lunch, Racetrack ain't even seein' Cass anymore. She's gonna be married soon, jus' leave it alone!"

"Maybe I can't! Maybe I can't leave it alone! Is it so bad? Are ya really surprised that this bodders me?" Lunch Money came back sharply, "I ain't the only one wit' questions about you an' whateveh the hell happened wit' _Cass_. Jack an' Blink an' all a' them is wonderin' what you'se is hidin'; that's all anyone can talk about anymore! Every time ya leave the room, ya know they start speculatin' an' talkin' 'bout all your secrets." She spat, working up into temper, "Afteh hearin' all that, am I that paranoid ta suspect the worst?"

"Al'ight, I get it!" Spot cut her off, "I know, if I was you, I'd be insane with jealousy." She rolled his eyes and started to turn away, but Spot grabbed her hand, "C'mon, Lunch Money, ya gotta at least believe I'm crazy about ya."

"I believe it." Lunch Money said quietly, meeting his eye with difficulty.

"Okay." Spot said in a calming voice. He wrapped her in a hug, and kissed the top of her head. He vaguely noticed that he was significantly taller than her. It made a nice change, he thought, remembering a snow-filled night months ago, when he proved to Lunch Money that he was in fact a fraction of an inch taller than her. "Shh. Are we okay, now, Lunch?"

Lunch Money stood in his embrace, wishing she didn't have to say what she really thought. She wished she could stay in his arms forever. But she had to answer Spot's question: _Are we okay now?_ "I don't think we are."

"Whaddya mean?" Spot asked taking a step away from Lunch Money, "What else d'ya want me ta say?"

Lunch Money just gave him a cold look. He knew exactly what she wanted. She wanted him to stop keeping his secrets and tell the truth for once in his life.

"I ain't sayin' nuttin'. I'm jus' tryin' ta protect what reputation I got left, okay?" He spoke stubbornly, but as soon as the words were out of his mouth, Spot realized he'd gone too far. "I didn't mean that." He tried to amend, but the damage was done. Lunch Money's expression was hurt and furious. Spot's reputation. _Reputation_ was the word that had already caused them enough grief. It was the word that kept both of them up at night and far away from each other.

"I thought we was past all this shit about reputations." Lunch Money spat through clenched teeth, "If ya wanted ta keep ya damn reputation, ya shoulda stayed with Brooklyn. Ya didn't have ta give it up. We didn't have ta give up our reputations."

"Yeah, what did you eveh give up, Lunch?" Spot snapped, "Ya had nuttin' ta lose! Me, I had everyt'ing ta lose! Still got more ta lose if ya don't me keep me own secrets."

"Keep the secrets then, Conlon." Lunch Money said. They were back to this. Square one. Back to fighting and arguing over everything. Lunch Money didn't know if she could handle that again. She didn't know if she could afford to lose that much sleep. All she knew was that she had to leave before she said something she'd regret. Lunch Money started away from Spot, but he wasn't going to let her off so easily.

"Lunch Money, this is stupid. We're jus' gettin' woirked up oveh nuttin. Cassie ain't--"

"I don't care about Cassie." Lunch Money interrupted, "Ya don't think I can handle that little bitch? It's _you_ I can't deal wit'. You an' your fuckin' reputation and secrets." She gave him enough courtesy to glance at him over her shoulder as she spoke, but she didn't slow down her retreat.

"So, what, ya gonna run away again?" Spot's words effectively stopped Lunch Money in her tracks. She turned back to face him, for once with nothing to say. She wasn't running again.

"No, I'm not." She answered finally, glaring at Spot.

"Good," He said, smirking, "I'd miss ya if ya left."

"Don't waste your breath, Conlon." Lunch Money said harshly, and without another word, she marched back inside the flat, slamming the door behind her.


	12. Scoundrels

_Author's Note: Sorry this took so long to post. I make it my policy to update once a week, but obviously I didn't make my own deadline. Also, just so every knows: this chapter has been the bane of my life for the past couple of weeks. So, please, read and review. _

_

* * *

_

Cassie and Henry were carrying off their engagement flawlessly. They were seen everywhere together, just as Mrs. Arden had hoped. Every socialite in New York City had at least heard of the grand wedding that would be that June. Their first kiss at the racetracks soon multiplied. They were seen at the opera, cozied next to each other. They greeted each other affectionately, and Henry constantly had his hand in hers, or his arm around her waist. They were adorable. A perfect match.

Cassie had everything any girl could ever ask for; everything any girl fantasized about. Cassie had complete mastery when it came to lying to herself. But the guilt and longing eating away at her was becoming unbearable. Where _was_ Racetrack? She hadn't seen him since that night at Sheepshead. Cassie could only assume that Racetrack had seen Henry kissing her, and the reality of her engagement had finally hit home. She wanted to see Racetrack; she had to tell him that she wasn't in love with Henry. _But wait_, Cassie would always argue with herself, _you _should_ love Henry._ _You love Henry, and you don't love Racetrack. That's how everything is supposed to work out. _

Yes, that was how everything was supposed to happen-- but why did Cassie feel the need to explain herself to Racetrack?

* * *

"Are ya gonna tell her now?"

Spot looked up, surprised to hear Racetrack's voice. Racetrack lit a cigar and clamped it between his teeth before he took a seat next to Spot. The two boys were just outside the house (in which Lunch Money was surely still fuming) sitting on the curb at the edge of the street. Spot rolled his eyes.

"No, I ain't tellin' her."

"C'mon, ya don't think this has gone on long enough?" Racetrack asked, exhaling smoke, "Lunch jus' came stormin' inside; she looked ready ta kill anyone who got her way."

"She's bein' unreasonable!" Spot defended himself angrily, "I don't get what she's so mad about."

"Ya don't?"

"Fine, I do." Spot snapped, "But dere's nuttin' I can do about it, so--"

"Ya could tell her ya used ta live next door ta Cassie," Racetrack interrupted reprovingly, "Ya could tell her the truth."

"Yeah, right." Spot scoffed, "She'll get oveh it."

"She's pretty mad."

"So what? Lunch'll sulk fa' a few days, and then she'll come around, no big deal." He shrugged, looking unconcerned.

Racetrack frowned, "Okay." he took a deep breath, "I'm sayin' this as your friend, an' not as Lunch Money's oldeh brudder: It's shockin' how bad ya are at figgerin' out goils."

"Whaddya mean?" Spot exclaimed, "I ain't bad at figgerin' out goils! An' Lunch ain't _that_ upset. She's probably jus' at the wrong time a' month, ya know? Oh shit," He added, more to himself then to Racetrack, "When was the las' time we had sex? I didn't even think ta figger out how many days away we were--"

"Oh Gawd." Racetrack cut him off, "Stop talkin' about me sisteh's menstrual cycle, an' _really_ stop talkin' about you'se two havin' sex! You have no idea how much energy I put into not thinkin' about that. ...And ya had sex las' Thursday."

Spot smirked, "Sorry... But, c'mon, Race, it ain't like you'se is any betteh wit' goils. Whateveh happened ta Cassie?"

"Nuttin'." Racetrack said quickly. He didn't want to talk about Cassie. He didn't want to think about her. He thought about her enough without talking about her. Racetrack was sick of dodging the boxes at Sheepshead, avoiding Cassie. He had finally realized what he should have known the entire time: seeing Cassie was too dangerous. It would ultimately end up with Cassie in trouble, and Racetrack hurt.

"Nuttin'." He repeated, "I got smart an' listened ta you. Rich goils is too much trouble."

"Glad ya came ta that conclusion."

"Yeah," Racetrack brushed off the conversation and tried to refocus on Spot's problem, "Listen Spot, ya break Lunch's heart, I'll hafta kill ya."

Spot tried gallantly not to laugh. "C'mon Racetrack, we're jus' havin' a stupid argument. An' even if this does end up bein' a real problem, we'll fix it. When one person gets mad, ya don't break it off jus' like that. When ya fall in love, ya don't let t'ings fall apart this easily."

"What?"

"I said: when ya fall in love, ya don't let t'ings fall apart so easily." Spot repeated slowly, "What's a' matteh? Ya deaf or--"

"Ya right." Racetrack said loudly, getting to his feet, "Ya right, Spot. Listen, thanks; I gotta go."

And he was off running, leaving Spot bewildered at the curb. As Racetrack disappeared around the corner, Spot slapped his hand to his forehead in a sudden revelation. Racetrack was going after Cassie. _Shit. _

_

* * *

_

_Chink. Chink._

Cassie looked toward her window. It was pitch-dark outside; only the faint silhouette of the tree outside her window was visible. She was just preparing to turn in, but the pebbles against her window heralded a visitor that removed all thoughts of sleep from her mind. A third rock tapped against the glass, and Cassie dashed across her bedroom excitedly. She slid open the window.

"Racetrack?"

"Hey Cassie!" She heard his voice from the ground far below.

"Racetrack! I haven't seen you in ages; where have you been?"

"I been busy," Racetrack said vaguely, "Hey, come down!"

Cassie was ready to agree enthusiastically, but she hesitated at the apparition of a wickedly wonderful inspiration. "No," She told him, "Come up."

"_What_?"

"Come up." She repeated casually. Racetrack wondered whether Cassie had completely lost her mind, but of course the hormones won any argument his brain might have offered. So he climbed the tree. He reached her window, telling her frankly as he climbed over the windowsill: "Ya crazy."

"Crazy, how am I crazy?" Cassie laughed.

"I'm jus' tryin' imagine your parents' reaction when they find out ya had the street kid from the racetracks in ya bedroom." Racetrack thought that was a valid concern.

"Oh, their room is on the other side of the house. The only person with even a slight chance of catching us is Aria. And if she knew I was even talking to you, she'd take me out for a celebratory ice cream sundae." Cassie rolled her eyes. Aria, her maid who was so convinced of Cassie's snobbish nature. If only she could see Cassie now.

It was Racetrack who took initiative. He leaned in to kiss Cassie, who eagerly returned to the kiss. He wasn't sure of what they were thinking of. Neither knew what this was about, but they didn't want to ask questions. Maybe it would only be tonight. Maybe Cassie only wanted to unleash her frustration at the long, miserable weeks of wedding planning she was currently experiencing. Maybe Racetrack didn't care about anything that lay ahead of them. Neither had any idea what they were doing, kissing passionately in Cassie's bedroom. But they were content to remain blissfully ignorant.

Cassie took Racetrack's hand, pulling him over to the bed. He hesitated.

"Ya know, fa' a fine lady, ya ain't actin' very ladylike." He observed, smirking. Cassie laughed too, stretched out on her bedding.

"Well, for a scoundrel, you aren't acting very scoundrel-like." She teased.

"It jus' seems awful risky, an'--" Racetrack tried to reason, but he broke off, grinning, "...Yeah, who am I kiddin'? I'm a scoundrel."

"Thought so."

Cassie pulled Racetrack onto the bed with her. He was slightly surprised by her boldness, assuming that a lady of Cassie's caliber wouldn't be so forward. Not that he minded in the least. From there, everything was intense and frantic; their bodies sensed that it was their only night together and were eager to make the most of the little time they had. Kisses and moans freely fell from their lips as they moved together. They didn't think. Thinking was a completely foreign concept, and any thinking would only lead them to thoughts of Henry and social status and other uncertainties. In fulfilling either love or lust, for a few moment, they were the only two people in the world.

It was hours later when Cassie finally allowed herself to worry. By that time Racetrack was fast asleep next to her, his breathing deep and even. She lay awake into the witching hour, watching him sleep, worrying and wondering. _What have I done? _

_

* * *

_

"Cassie? _Cassie_!"

Cassie's eyelids sprang open. Someone was knocking her door. She sat up, panicked.

"It's Henry. Your mother said to let you sleep in. It's nearly eleven o'clock, and I thought we could meet our parents for lunch; our mothers are out shopping together."

"Um, yes, certainly." Cassie called back vaguely. She was in a state of absolute panic and distress, "_Wake up_!" Cassie whispered frantically to Racetrack, shaking him awake.

"What the--" He began drowsily, but Cassie clapped a hand over his mouth.

"Shh!"

"Cassie, are you alright?" Henry's voice came from the other side of the door. He tried the doorknob. It was locked.

"Oh yes, yes, I'm just getting dressed." Cassie lied as she and Racetrack exchanged terrified looks, "Get dressed!" She mouthed to Racetrack, who immediately rolled out of bed and dressed as quickly and quietly as possible. Cassie grabbed her robe and hastily wrapped it around her body. In less than a minute, Racetrack had located all of his clothing and was once again properly attired.

"Cassie?" Henry called impatiently. Racetrack glanced toward the door, and headed towards Cassie's window. Cassie ushered him out frantically, though they could resist a last long kiss before Henry's voice once again reminded them how dangerous their current situation was.

"Bye. I'll see ya." Racetrack whispered as he dropped out of sight, clambering back down that ever so convenient tree of Cassie's.

As soon as Racetrack was safely out of her room, Cassie wasted no time in dashing across the room to let Henry in. "Good morning, Henry." She said coyly, hoping Henry wouldn't question what had been her delay. Questioning was not on Henry's agenda however. He pushed past her, looking angry and suspicious. He checked under her bed, in every corner of her room, while Cassie looked on horror, hoping Racetrack hadn't left anything behind.

"Henry, this is hardly proper, I--"

She broke off, as the rustle of the tree limbs just outside the window distracted both her and Henry. Henry bolted to the window, looking out in time to see Racetrack disappearing over the Arden's garden wall. For a second that stretched on for an eternity, Henry said nothing. Cassie sank onto the edge of her bed, ashamed.

"You little whore." Henry said slowly, furiously, "You whore. That's your friend from the racetrack, isn't it?"

Cassie stared resolutely at her knees, wanted to vaporize on the spot. Henry turned to face her, glaring at her mutinously, the look carrying more than hints of distain and revulsion. Cassie felt tears of shame and fear well up in her eyes. She couldn't look at Henry. In reaction to Cassie's obstinate silence, Henry seized her upper arm and forced her to her feet. He brought his face close to hers, a terrible expression on his face.

"You stupid girl. Do you know what this could do to my reputation? To your family's? You selfish little slut." He growled, "You have to grow up, stop fucking with dirty bastard wops and turn some attention to better men, a man who's actually worth something."

_Racetrack _is_ worth something. He's worth everything,_ Cassie wanted to say, but she couldn't speak those words out loud. Instead, she took the weak way out and asked in a small voice, "You won't tell will you?"

"Maybe I will." Henry snapped, tightening his grip on Cassie's arm, "Or maybe I'll forget to mention it. As long as you keep me happy, I can keep on forgetting to inform your mother about your unsavory activities."

"Excuse me?" Cassie was not about to be blackmailed over this. But then, what choice did she have? If word got out about her and Racetrack, her family would be ruined. They would be excommunicated from all decent society. It would be worse than what happened to the Conlons. Henry had grown impatient with Cassie's protests. He had the advantage. He had the blackmail. He was going to use it. He shoved her roughly onto her bed, and he stood over her, radiating fury. The look in his eye scared Cassie, but she found it difficult to look away. Like an automobile accident.

"Get this straight, whore. From here on out, I own you."


	13. The Proposal

On a usual Monday afternoon, Spot and Jack did not get visitors. First of all, no one knew they were living on Spar Street; accept for a few of their fellow former newsies. Secondly, most of the people who knew where they lived worked on Monday afternoons. In fact, there was only one person who was the exception to those rules. There was one person who knew exactly where Spot Conlon and Jack Kelly were living, _and_ had nothing to do on Monday afternoons. This potential visitor was Cassie Arden of course, though her visit that day certainly was not a social occasion. It was a matter of business.

It was Jack who answered Cassie's desperate raps against the door. He was surprised to see Cassie, but he addressed her as though it was a normal occurrence for her to show up on their doorstep.

"Uh, Race ain't heah right now; he's woikin' til--"

"I'm not here to talk to Racetrack." Cassie interrupted breathlessly, looking distraught, "I need to talk to Spot."

Right on cue, Spot appeared at Jack's shoulder, "What's goin' on, Cass? Are you okay?"

"No, I'm not okay. I need to talk to you."

Spot and Jack exchanged subtle shrugs and curious glances, but Spot stepped outside to join Cassie, intrigued by her obvious consternation.

"Let's walk." Spot suggested, wanting to make sure Jack was well out of earshot before beginning the discussion, lest Cassie mention something pertaining to his past life on Park Avenue. They walked at a slow pace, side by side. Cassie couldn't wait until the end of the block to tell him what was on her mind.

"Andrew, you have to come back," She told Spot. It wasn't a question.

Spot laughed derisively, "Yeah, right."

"You don't understand. You _have_ to come back."

"No, _you_ don't understand. I _don't_ hafta go back."

Cassie stopped walking. She was too furious with Spot. Her fists were clenched, her expression livid. She was not going to let some spoiled, selfish little boy ruin her life.

"You didn't even think, did you?" She spat, "Before you left, you didn't even think what would happen to your family when you ran out. You didn't think about what might happen to me."

"That's right, I didn't." Spot didn't look for forgiveness, and he refused to justify or apologize for his insensitive behavior. Cassie looked upset. No, she looked more than upset. She looked hurt and desperate and tearful.

"You may have escaped betrothal, _Spot._" Cassie said angrily blinking back tears, "But I didn't. You don't even care what sort of man I will get stuck marrying."

"Let's not kid ourselves. Even y_ou_ don't care who ya get stuck wit'... anyt'ing ta please mommy an' daddy, right?" Spot smirked coldly, "Sure, Henry McClellan is a bastard, but he's rollin' in dough. Jus' your type, right, Cass?"

"No," Cassie said sharply, "No, he's not my type. He found out about Racetrack. Henry caught him leaving my room this morning." She added in a meek, shaking voice. Spot laughed. He couldn't help it. The entire situation struck him as hilarious. Cassie failed to see the humor.

"Shut up, Andrew!"

"Sorry. Jus' proud ya finally losin' your virginity." Spot said, unable to conceal a sly grin.

"Can you take anything seriously?" Cassie was not in the mood for Spot's junvenile jokes.

"Sure. Sorry." Spot said, making a mock-somber face, "So Henry knows about you an' Racetrack. So what?"

"So what? He is blackmailing me, that's what." She hissed venomously. Spot shrugged. That seemed obvious. Henry would be an absolute idiot if he uncovered a huge secret about Cassie and didn't use it to his advantage. And if anyone understood the careful handling of information and secrets, it was Spot Conlon.

"Okay." Spot said, "That's terrible. He's a bastard. Ya knew you was askin' for trouble when ya slept wit' Racetrack." Spot remained completely neutral and insensitive to Cassie. "But c'mon, Cass, I can only deal wit one hysterically unreasonable goil at a time; Lunch still ain't talkin' ta me an' I gotta save my charm fa' when she gets off woirk."

Cassie hesitated. She didn't care about whatever little issues were going on with Spot and Lunch Money. Truly, she didn't. "Andrew, I can't marry Henry." She repeated.

"You're bein' dramatic."

"I'm not dramatic. He _raped_ me. I'll be as dramatic as I damn well please." Cassie announced, watching Spot's reaction. The transition from indifference to rage was quite a sight. His prominent eyes flashed dangerously and his fists clenched involuntarily.

"He didn't." Spot said in such a way that Cassie almost believed him, "He didn't."

"He did." Cassie nodded. She blinked and a tear rolled down her cheek. "Please, won't you help me?" She begged, "Come back, if you come back I'm sure my parents would forget about Henry in a second; your family has far more money than--"

"Their not my family," Spot interrupted. He wasn't sure how to go on. The full impact of what Cassie was asking him to do was hitting him. "You want me ta go back dere, back to-- back ta livin' in that gawddamn cage so I can marry you?" He spoke slowly, realizing what an impossible task going backwards would be. Rewinding to Park Avenue. To marry Cassie. Lunch Money would kill him.

"Please, Andrew," Cassie implored, wiping still more tears away. The damsel in distress struck again. Spot was not impressed.

"No," He said vehemently, "No, I won't do that, Cass! I ran away fa' a reason. If you'se is so fuckin' miserable, why don't _you _run away?"

"I will not run away, Andrew, you know that." Cassie argued, "I, unlike you, am not completely devoid of sensitivity. I'm not throwing my life away by running away."

"I'm not throwin' my life away by runnin' back." Spot said defiantly, "Ya can't ask me ta do sumptin' like that-- I'm happy heah, an'--"

"You're happy here?" Cassie repeated scoffing, "Here, in these foul streets? Running from the law?"

"Yes, I'm happy, an' I ain't leavin'."

"I need your help." Cassie pleaded, "I know we weren't in love or anything, but at least you were my friend."

"I'm sorry." Spot said, and he meant it, "But I couldn't do that ta Lunch Money."

"Again with her!" Cassie erupted. She had had quite enough of his childish behavior. If Spot didn't step up, she would be forced to marry that bastard rapist. After Racetrack had left that morning, Henry pressed his advantage. _A street rat is good enough for you? You aren't any better than street trash yourself; if that's the sort of company you'll have in your bed. Street trash doesn't deserve shit. _That's what he'd said. Among other things. "Again with Lunch Money! She's just a girl! And not a very refined one at that. What on Earth do you see in her?"

"Fa' one t'ing, if she was in your situation, she would stand up for herself," Spot snapped, "She wouldn't let Henry or her parents push her around, and she would have the guts to leave."

"Running away doesn't take guts." Cassie said icily, "And honestly, Andrew, the girl is street trash! Of course your precious Lunch Money would stand up for herself! She's probably been doing God knows what just to survive out here in this sewer."

Cassie had snapped. She forgot her need to please everyone and was completely overtaken by her own desperation. But even in her distressed state, she recognized she had gone too far.

"I'm sorry." She said profusely, watching Spot's expression turn in nothing short of fury, "I shouldn't have said that, I--"

"No, you shouldn't have." Spot agreed through clenched teeth. It was taking every ounce of his strength to stand still. Never hit a girl, never hit a girl. "But it was honest. I've neveh actually heard ya tell anyone what ya really thought about anyt'ing."

Silence stretched for a long time. Cassie didn't know how long it was until he spoke again, but every moment passed in slow motion. She could sense Spot's anger, and she almost regretted asking him for help. Though, of course, she had no other options. No one else she could go to.

"What about Racetrack?" He asked finally.

"What _about_ Racetrack?"

Spot asked curiously, "D'ya care what happens ta him? Ya sleep wit' him, then ya want me ta marry ya. D'ya love him?"

Cassie laughed nervously, "Oh Andrew, what sort of question is that?"

"A good one." Spot shrugged, "An' I think ya do." He paused, "I'll think about it."

"What?"

"I said I'll think about it!" Spot snapped, "I gotta talk ta Lunch Money and Racetrack foirst, okay? I'll think about it."

"Thank you," Cassie said weakly, "Thank you, Andrew."

"Shut up. I ain't agreed ta nuttin' yet."


	14. I Hate That I Love You

_Author's Note: Hi. I'm back, with an update. This author's note has no real purpose but to thank all that reviewed. I love reading your feedback, so keep at it, fellas! Also, I've just got to say, that I'm quite excited (and relieved) that we're at this point in the story. Things go downhill really fast after this and I love to torture. So enjoy._

* * *

"Damn, Racetrack, wheah the hell were ya?" Spot called as soon as Racetrack was close enough to hear. Spot had spent the entire afternoon pacing the length of Spar Street, waiting for Lunch Money and Racetrack to get home. 

"I was woirkin'!" Racetrack called back, rolling his eyes, "Whadd'ya think I was doin'?"

"Shut up," Spot ordered offhand, barely listening to Racetrack's response, "Jus' c'mon." He said, turning Racetrack around and shoving him in the direction from which he'd come.

"Whatcha doin', ya idiot? Home is _that_ way." Racetrack gestured behind them, towards the house, where Jack was inside, probably looking around for something to turn into dinner for eight hungry urchins.

"Ya ain't goin' home; we're goin' ta get Lunch Money."

"She woirks fa' anudder hour. And why are we doin' this again?"

"Look, I need ta talk ta you'se two. An' we need ta talk away from the others." Spot explain concisely, "I don't wanna answer they're questions yet; you an' Lunch need ta know what's goin' on foirst."

* * *

"Heya, Lunch, how's the hats?" 

"Scram, Conlon."

"Aw, c'mon Lunch, I gotta talk ta ya." Spot said, approaching the front counter, where Lunch Money was tallying up the day's receipts, a scowl on her face. Racetrack stayed near the door, not wanting to get in the middle of another one of their lover's spats. After so long, their bickering became very tedious.

"No, I ain't done bein' mad at you." Lunch Money said returning to the papers and numbers. Spot didn't answer right away; he just leaned against the counter, watching her work. Racetrack rolled his eyes; he wanted to fast forward through the fight and find out the nature of the urgent news Spot wanted to discuss. Lunch Money looked up, glaring at Spot.

"Get out."

"No."

"Spot, I mean it."

"Me too."

"Racetrack!" Lunch Money appealed to her brother, "What the hell are ya thinkin', lettin' him come heah? He's supposed ta be stayin' outta sight, fa' one t'ing--"

"Ah, it's nice ta see ya still care if I get hauled off ta the refuge." Spot interjected, smiling. Lunch Money ignored him.

"...An' fa' anudder, I still ain't talkin' ta him! You know that!"

"Hey, hey!" Racetrack protested, "Don't drag me inta this! I was mindin' me own business-- he's the one who made me come all'a way down heah ta talk ta ya about Gawd knows what--"

"Ta talk about Cassie," Spot said in a rush, "She came ta see me taday an'--"

"I don't care." Lunch Money said shortly, turning away. Spot glanced at Racetrack, who shrugged hopelessly. Spot gritted his teeth and sucked in a deep breath.

"Lunch, you wanna know why I neveh toldja how I know Cassie?" He paused, then all in one breath he told her the truth, "Because me an' Cass used ta be engaged."

It took a long time for Lunch Money to react. She just stared at Spot for a second; trying to process the words he had spoken. Then she slammed the register drawer shut, and marched around the counter, past Spot. She stormed to the windows, pulling the shades down with a little more vigor than necessary. Lunch Money elbowed past Racetrack, locked the door to the little hat shop, signifying that they were closed for the evening, and turned around to face the two boys. She looked furious. Racetrack vaguely wondered if Lunch Money was going to kill them. There were no witnesses, and it would be just like Lunch Money to make their death look like a terrible accident.

"Talk." She said in an icy voice. Lunch Money took a few steps to the right, where a display of cylindrical hatboxes were stacked neatly and perched herself on top of them, seated comfortably. She waited for someone to explain. Racetrack looked at Spot. This was Spot's show.

"I didn't tell ya how I knew Cass, 'cos I didn't want anyone ta know about my parents or wheah I grew up." Spot explained, "I grew up on Park Avenue, on the same street as Cassie."

"You was a rich bastard!" Lunch Money exclaimed, fuming. This was huge. It was bigger than huge. This entire time, Spot had kept this to himself, creating the illusion that he was a street rat just like them. It was too bizarre to think about Spot wearing a nice suit and living with his parents in an elegant manor. It was like he wasn't even Spot anymore. "How could ya have kept that from all a' us fa' so long? You been lyin' this whole time--?"

"Lunch, shut up, I ain't done." Spot interrupted, "I used ta be engaged ta Cassie--"

"Yeah, ya mentioned that one." Lunch Money growled, "I can't believe you! Ya said that your damn secrets weren't important! I think ya mighta mentioned you was engaged before ya started doin' me!"

"Hey, I didn't bring it up 'cos it _wasn't_ important!" Spot snapped, "I didn't exactly expect that ya brudder was gonna bring my former intended home wit' him!"

"That doesn't change the fact that ya been lyin' about who ya are!" Lunch Money argued, "Racetrack, can you believe this? Don'tcha-- Why aren'tcha mad?" She asked Racetrack, who was watching the preceedings with an amiable air, "Racetrack, how are ya not angrier about this? He's been lyin' about this fa' years... Ya knew." She accused, now livid, "You _knew_ about all along an' ya didn't tell me?"

Racetrack decided to take the fifth and just shrugged. Lunch Money was on her feet. She couldn't believe them! The two people she trusted most in the world had been lying to her!

"Lunch Money, sit down, you can yell when I'm done." Spot said in a tired voice. Lunch Money shot him a murderous glare, but took her seat once again, "Okay. Fuck, a fella can't even get a woird in edgewise. Now what I wanted ta talk ta you'se two about was Cassie. She came ta see me today. Henry," He began, addressing Racetrack, "Knows about you an' Cass. Nex' time ya wanna sneak into a goil's room, try makin' a fasteh getaway, huh Higgins?"

"Ya _slept_ wit her?" Lunch Money asked her brother in a disgusted tone, "Ya slept wit that bitch? Holy shit, I'm scarred fa' life with that mental image--"

"Oh, you'se is unbelievable!" Racetrack protested, "I get the lecture when ya find out the slightest detail about my sex life, but it's perfectly okay for _me_ ta jus' walk in on you'se two goin' at it!"

"Oh, that was one time, and me an' Spot weren't even havin' sex, so it didn't count--"

"Will you'se two shut up?" Spot interrupted loudly, "Believe it or not, this story still gets worse."

"Right, right," Racetrack said, refocusing, "Henry found out about me an' Cassie?"

"Yeah, he did." Spot said, dreading the information he now had to impart to the Higgins siblings, "An' now he'd blackmailin' her. Sounds like Henry'll only keep quiet as long as he keeps gettin' sex. He raped her this mornin' afteh ya left, Race."

Racetrack felt like he was choking. He couldn't breath. He ignored his spinning head and focused on staying on his feet, "What?" he croaked, "Why... why didn't she come talk ta me--?"

"Because," Spot cut across Racetrack before he could finish his thought, "Because as soon as she was able ta get away, she came down heah ta talk ta me, so she could try ta talk me inta goin' back ta Park Avenue so that I can marry Cassie instead."

A ringing silence followed this announcement. Neither Racetrack nor Lunch Money knew what to say.

"You're gonna marry Cassie." Lunch Money said blankly, trying not to feel anything. Trying to be numb.

"_No._" Spot answered emphatically, "I ain't. I ain't neveh goin' back dere."

"So ya gonna let Cassie marry that creep?" Lunch Money asked, an unreadable expression on her face. Spot didn't answer that question. He didn't want to think about that.

"I gotta go." Racetrack said, going for the door, "I should let you'se two talk it out, this doesn't really have anyt'ing ta do wit' me."

"Race, it has everyt'ing ta do wit' you!" Lunch Money said, standing up.

"No, really, this is a decision fa' you an' Spot ta make wit'out me. I-- I'll see ya lateh." Racetrack said hastily, before shutting the door behind him and taking to the streets. He wanted nothing to do with this. It was a lose-lose situation. If Spot returned to Park Avenue, Lunch Money and Spot were miserable and Cassie was married to Spot. If Spot didn't return to Park Avenue, Cassie was married to that fucking bastard. This was a game Racetrack could not win.

Lunch Money and Spot watched him go. It was silent in the shop for a long time. This was an impossible problem. They spent their quiet minutes thinking and searching in vain for a loophole, a way out of this mess.

"You're gonna marry Cassie." Lunch Money repeated a long time later.

"No, I aint." Spot said, "It's my life, an' I can't go back dere, ya have no idea how horrible it is dere. How can I go back in that cage when I know what it's like ta be free out heah? I can't leave ya, Lunch."

"Yes, ya can." Lunch Money said sharply, "It's Cassie's life too. What'll happen ta her if ya don't go back? Ya won't eveh forgive yourself if ya don't."

"I won't forgive myself if I do."

"Spot," Lunch Money said. She came toward him and grabbed his hand, "You hafta go."

"Yeah, I know." Spot muttered, "Dammit, of all the times ta be reasonable, ya hafta be reasonable _now_?"

"Sorry."

They shared a long look. This was how it was going to end. After everything they'd been through. After everything, it would be over, just like that. They both bitterly realized that if they had let go of their stubborn pride and fear, they could have had so much longer together. Spot drew Lunch Money into a deep embrace. She buried her face against his shoulder, her arms around him.

"I'm gonna miss ya." She whispered.

"I love you."

"I love you too. I hate that I love you. It'd be easier if I didn't."

Spot smirked, kissing the top of Lunch Money's head.

And then he remembered. If he was going back to Park Avenue, there was one last piece of business he had to take care of. It meant that his last, most carefully guarded secret would have to be revealed. Spot Conlon was not out of surprises yet. He had another skeleton in his closet that would have to be released. At this realization, he cursed himself silently. And the key around his neck suddenly felt twice as heavy.


	15. Going Nowhere Fast

_Author's Note: I... finished... gasp the... chapter. Yes, it's on the short side. But more is soon to come, never fear!_

* * *

Racetrack didn't go home. He meant to go home; he really did. He left Spot and Lunch Money in the millenary with every intention of returning to Spar Street and eating a sorely needed supper. But he didn't go home. Instead he walked. Well, really, he wandered. Racetrack let his feet carry him through Brooklyn, past the now-deserted docks, the Brooklyn boys' lodging house (which now sported boards over the windows and broken hinges where the front door used to be). His hands were jammed deep into his pockets, and he took long strides, going nowhere fast.

What a theme that was getting to be. Racetrack was going nowhere fast. All his life, Racetrack through himself into everything, full tilt, all out. Hawking headlines, the strike. His ever present enthusiasm kept him going. But Racetrack still had ended with nothing. Spending his childhood selling newspapers never did him any good-- all any kid ever got out of being a newsie was a dime a day a couple of black eyes. The strike ultimately failed when Pulitzer and Hearst set up their damn newsstands. And now this. He was helpless in this situation. Completely helpless. There was nothing he could do, nothing he could say to change anything.

Racetrack had no idea how long he wandered New York. But eventually he came to rest. And no one would be surprised to hear that he found himself once again sitting in the tree outside Cassie's window.

"Racetrack!"

Racetrack jumped. Cassie had slid her window open, and was leaning far out of the window.

"Racetrack, what are--"

"I dunno what I'm doin' here." Racetrack admitted, "If I had any brains, I'd be back at home. I should go," He added, started to clamber back down the tree. He realized his presence on Park Avenue would only cause more trouble.

"Race, what's wrong?" Cassie asked earnestly. Race didn't even hesitate to give his answer.

"I talked ta Spot today." He said, "You asked him ta marry ya?"

"Yes." Cassie sighed, "Racetrack, don't be angry. You know you and I never would have worked and if I don't marry Spot I'll have to marry Henry. I can't do that."

"Cassie, I ain't stupid." Racetrack snapped, "I know you an' me are nuttin', but Spot an' Lunch Money ain't nuttin'. Spot has a life, believe it or not; how can ya ask him to give it all up for you?"

"Why does Lunch Money take priority with all of you?" Cassie frowned, "She can take care of herself, she doesn't need you and Spot fawning over her."

"Actually, she really does." Racetrack made a face, "Cassie, the woirld doesn't revolve around ya; what were ya thinkin'? Did ya even consider how anyone else would figger into this? Did ya think about Spot? Or Henry? Or Lunch, or me?" He asked.

He was staggered by how selfish Cassie was being. Well, Racetrack knew he _should_ be horrified and infuriated. Secretly, he did hope Spot would choose to accept Cassie's offer. Racetrack didn't think he could stand it if Cassie was forced to marry Henry. He didn't dare say this outloud. Racetrack had to remain impartial; Spot's choice would affect a number of people in some very drastic ways. Racetrack was the least qualified to influence his choice. Besides, if Spot left for Park Avenue, Lunch Money would be crushed. Crushed, beyond crushed. Stomped into tiny pieces, more like. It was the price of being the fucking over protective older brother: Lunch Money was always the priority.

"I don't care, Racetrack," Cassie argued, "I was scared. _Am_ scared. I don't know what else to do. Anyway, the damage is done: I've given Spot the option, and now he knows that he's the only one who can save me."

Racetrack didn't answer. He just started back down the tree the way he came. Cassie's voice gave him a moments hesitation.

"Racetrack!" He glanced up at Cassie, who was still leaning out of her window. She paused, unsure of what else to say. "Spot said something silly. He thinks we're in love."

"He's wrong." Racetrack said in monotone.

"I know." Cassie answered just as coldly.

"'Night Cassie."

"Good night Racetrack."

* * *

Kid Blink listened to Spot with his mouth wide open. He could barely begin to process what Spot was telling them. Next to him, Mush wore a similar expression of shock. Crutchy and Boots were hardly any better. The evening blurred around them as Spot gave them the run down. He was born on Park Avenue, engaged to Cassie, a runaway... Spot had been playing the part of a street rat for years. Random thoughts sparked in their minds... Why was he telling them this? Why had he kept it a secret? ...And where the hell was Lunch Money and Racetrack? Neither had been seen for hours. 

Of all the boys, Jack Kelly was probably the least surprised hear Spot's story. It was later that evening when Spot finally told the whole tale, his audience listening intently, gasping and exclaming at the proper places. Jack sat back, listening to Spot's long, scandalous past, looking very smug. He had always known that Spot Conlon had a history worth hearing. He knew Spot kept his past a enigmatic shroud for a reason.

It really all made sense, Spot as a spoiled, high society boy. Spot liked nice things, elegant things. He liked things clean. He certainly had much more class than any other newsie in New York, from his red suspenders to his gold-tipped rattan. So Jack was unsurprised. Intrigued? Of course. Surprised? No. It wasn't until the end of the story was Jack caught off guard.

"...So, I guess I kinda gotta go back." Spot finished his yearn glumly.

"What?" Jack demanded, shocked. No way was Spot walking out on them. Jack depended on Spot to help him keep the group together. He depended on Spot to help keep his sanity while they were stuck inside, hiding from the bulls. "You're goin' back?"

"Yeah." Spot nodded somberly, "Don't say anthing. Don't change my mind."

The boys were quiet. Kid Blink and Mush glanced at each other, both wondering what that meant for Lunch Money. The other boys just stared dumbly at Spot. Was this the last they would ever see of the great Spot Conlon?

"When are ya leavin'?" Jack asked, resigned.

"Tonight."


	16. Next Time

_Author's Note: Sorry this took so ridiculously long to post. Damn real life kept getting in the way._

* * *

Spot Conlon wasn't afraid of much. He wasn't afraid of a fight, or getting arrested. He so rarely felt afraid that many assumed that Spot was fearless. But that was not quite true. He used to be very much afraid of losing the respect he'd worked so hard to earn. He had a slightly irrational phobia of snakes, but rarely did one come across those giant worms in New York City, so he never mentioned that. He was afraid of Park Avenue. He was afraid of being caught and imprisoned in that world of money and fine clothes and estates. 

And yet there he was. Back at the beginning, after all the effort Spot had put into running away from his past, he had lost in the end. Standing in front of the house that he had spent his childhood in. The sun had just set behind the skyscrapers. Racetrack and Lunch Money stood flanking him, both feeling uncomfortable and saddened. Spot couldn't help but blame the two siblings a little. Ever since those Higgins's had showed up in Brooklyn, they had turned his world upside down and inside out and disrupted the order in which Spot had operated. He blamed them.

"I guess I'm goin' in there, huh?" Spot said, more to himself than to Lunch Money and Racetrack. It was quiet. The question needed no answer. Yes, Spot was going back to his estate. To face his mother and neighbors and the resulting ballyhoo his reappearance would surely stir up.

"I guess I'll see ya, Racetrack." Spot spat in his hand and offering it to Racetrack. Racetrack spat into his own hand and shook Spot's hand firmly. "I'm sorry, Racetrack." Spot said solemnly. He felt an apology was in order. He was marrying Racetrack's almost-girlfriend, after all.

Racetrack glanced away from Spot, towards Lunch Money, his expression strained and dejected. "Yeah. I'm sorry too." He paused, rapidly morphing into the awkward older brother, "Uh, well... I'll let you'se two, um, say goodbye." Racetrack muttered, retreating to give Lunch Money and Spot some space.

"Lunch?" Spot said once Racetrack reached the end of the avenue, well out of earshot.

"Maybe ya don't hafta go." Lunch Money said quietly, before Spot could see anything else. Before he could say goodbye.

"What?" Spot demanded angrily, "Lunch Money, you're the one who insisted that I go through with this!"

"Excuse me for tryin' to be good person!" Lunch Money snapped, "I jus' thought that we should try to do the right thing, okay? Now I get it: this is why we ain't good people. Bein' a good person is a stupid idea."

"Lunch, you say the word, I'll stay." Spot said earnestly. He would have given anything to stay with Lunch Money. "Ya think I _wanna_ go?"

"Spot, shut up." Lunch Money said harshly, "Don't make this my choice. Don't make this harder."

"Sorry."

He took her in his arms, and Lunch Money returned the embrace sorrowfully. They were dealing in _lasts_ now. Their last embrace, their last argument, soon their last kiss. Lunch Money cringed to think of that. She longed to return to that previous fall, when they were dealing in firsts. True, at the time their first kiss seemed like the worst thing that could ever have happened. Lunch Money thought bitterly back to that night on the fire escape, wondering whether life really would have been easier if she had never fallen in love. Easier, maybe. But not nearly as worthwhile.

"I love you."

"I love you too."

"You should go." Lunch Money said, her throat very tight. He ought to leave before they changed their minds. He ought to leave before she started crying.

"Wait." Spot said quickly. He glanced over his shoulder, as though to check if anyone was eavesdropping on their conversation, "Wait. I need to ask ya a favor."

"What kinda favor?" Lunch Money was intrigued. Spot sighed and located the key around his neck. He pulled it off over his head and offered to Lunch Money. Lunch Money looked confused, watching the key swing from the grubby old shoelace.

"If I'm goin' back, I can't take this with me." He explained, "Will ya keep it safe?"

"Why?" Lunch Money was skeptical. And she sensed another secret coming. That did not sit well with her.

"I'll explain later, okay? It's safer if ya don't know anything about it." Spot said, "I swear, I'll tell ya the whole story nex' time I see ya."

Lunch Money took the key from him, giving him a fierce glare and muttering something along the lines of "Fuckin' secrets."

"No one can know that ya got it. Not Racetrack, not Jack or Blink. Nobody." Spot seemed adamant about this.

"Spot, jus' tell me _why_--"

"Not here." Spot said firmly, "I'll tell ta when I see ya nex'."

"Yeah? When'll that be Spot?" Lunch Money asked viciously, "Spot, this is it! This is all the time we got."

"No, it's not." Spot insisted, "I promise Lunch, I'll see ya again soon-- real soon."

"Right." Lunch Money scoffed, hanging the key around her neck grudgingly, "I'll keep it safe for ya. I won't tell no one."

"Thank you." Spot said, kissing her one last time, "'Love you."

"I love you." Lunch Money said again, this time in a quiet, shaky voice. With a quick half-hearted smirk to Lunch Money, Spot turned away and started up the private drive leading to the Conlon home. Lunch Money watched him until he disappeared under the shadows created by the eves over the front stoop.

She wasn't going to cry. She had every reason in the world to break down sobbing, but Lunch Money wouldn't. She hated crying, and she hated crying over Spot most of all. It always hurt the most. It took all of her energy just to stay on her feet. She couldn't move; she couldn't leave Spot, even though he was already gone. If her older brother hadn't come to her side and guided her back to Spar Street, she might have stayed there all night.

Racetrack himself was in no fit condition to comfort. He needed consoling nearly as much as Lunch Money, despite his own attempts to dismiss his problems. Race had tried telling himself that he didn't care. That he didn't care about Cassie or who she married. It was the lie he fed himself that night because he couldn't afford to be trapped by his troubles, not while his sister needed a shoulder to cry on.


	17. Some Gentleman of Our Aquaintance

_Author's Note: Hi, y'all. In three days, I will be free for the summer. And all the hellish nightmare of never-ending finals and projects will be over. And I will spend hours upon hours writing Newsies fan fiction. Huzzah!_

* * *

Mrs. Henrietta Conlon was a woman used to pity. Her only son was the imfamous disgrace of Park Avenue, the runaway delinquent who now had an extensive record with the police, and her husband dead and gone. There were certainly some substantial reasons why she might be the object of pity, but few who knew her well felt sorry for her. And she was very comfortable accepting the sympathy from her neighbors, often milking her tragedy shamelessly. Despite the tragic picture colored by the rumors of Park Avenue, Mrs. Conlon was not the type of woman who moped around, wallowing in her unfortunate loneliness. She was still just as outspoken and bossy as ever, ordering her servants around mercilissly. In short, she was a Conlon. And there has never yet been a Conlon, either by birth or by marriage, who admitted defeat.

It was getting late. The sun had set near a half hour ago, and Mrs. Conlon was already comfortably enjoying her dessert in the parlour. The doorbell rang. She thought nothing of it, expecting her butler would take care of anyone who might come to call. She was actually quite annoyed when the butler appeared at the doorway of the parlour, announcing an unexpected guest. Unexpected visitors were a pet peeve of Mrs. Conlon's. Civilized people always called ahead; one should never drop in uninvited.

"I believe this young man is someone you will want to speak with." The butler insisted against his mistress's annoyed sighs.

"Very well," Mrs. Conlon said irritably, "Show him in."

There was no need to 'Show him in', however. At that moment, a grubby boy wandered into the prestine parlour. He was very nonchalant; he looked around the room in vague interest, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. He said nothing. Mrs. Conlon rose to her feet. She took a few steps toward him, obviously scruntinizing his shabby appearance.

"Andrew?"

"Yeah?"

To Spot's horror, his mother rushed to hug him. He permitted her to smother him with hulmiliating maternal love for a moment, then stepped away pointedly. The instant she releashed her son, Mrs. Conlon raised her right hand and cracked him one shard across the mouth.

"Holy shit." He muttered, massaging his jaw. After all those years, his mother still hadn't lost her technique; she still had quite the flare for discipline.

"Watch your mouth too, young man, or, so help me, I will put a bar of soap in your mouth. Don't roll your eyes at me." She added severely.

"I ain't rollin' my eyes." Spot snapped.

"Aren't." Mrs. Conlon corrected, "You aren't rolling your eyes."

"I know I'm not."

"Andrew, what are you doing here?" She asked in a businesslike manner, "You aren't in trouble, are you?"

"Not exactly."

"Well then?"

Spot avoided the question. He wandered to the other side of the coffee table and took a seat on the sofa. Spot thought he felt the entire room cringe as he dirtied the couch. The cheesecake dessert resting on the table caught his attention.

"Hey can I-- May I finish this?" He asked, gesturing to the cake.

"I suppose." Mrs. Conlon pursed her lips together. Spot picked at the cheesecake for a minute or so, almost enjoying the painful silence.

"I've come back to marry Cassie Arden." He said casually.

"You're back for good then?" Mrs. Conlon had to sit down. No one expected Andrew Conlon to reappear and demand his inheritance and his bride.

"Shoah. I guess." He shrugged. He didn't want to think about living on Park Avenue 'for good'.

"You must realize that Cassie is already engaged to someone. Henry McClellan, do you remember him?" His mother asked, "He's a lovely boy." She said emphatically, giving Spot a meaningful look. Spot took the hint: Henry was the lovely that Spot's mother would die to have. "You can't marry her if she's engaged to Henry."

"What? You think we can't change that?"

* * *

The sudden reappearance of an imfamous runaway heir was not an event to be ignored. Word spread like wildfire that Andrew Conlon, son of the late Sean Conlon (yes that boy who was rumored to be dead and worse) had returned to claim his inheritance. It was the sort of scandal the public loved to hear, and while Spot's homecoming was not exactly world-changing news, it was definitely the hottest gossip in the first class social circles of New York. The sort of news a newsie might have sold when when the news was slow. The sort of news reporters might be interested in. 

"Excuse me, I was wondering if I might be granted an interview with Master Conlon; I'm with the Times--"

"Yes, that's the boy--!"

"Picture for the Tribune?"

Reporters really are like vultures, Spot thought to himself as he surveyed the scene outside from his bedroom window. The news must have been outlandishly slow, for half the staff reporters from the various dailies were gathered on his street, getting interviews from gossipy neighbors and trying to catch a glimpse of him. Mrs. Conlon refused all interviews, insisting that it wouldn't be dignified to have their names plastered all over the news. Mrs. Conlon turned the reporters away in droves, until, just after lunch time, Spot heard a knock at his door.

"Master Conlon, a gentleman is here to see you. He as hoping you would grant him an interview." The butler said in a stodgy, dignified voice, "Your mother approved the interview; the fellow here says he knows you personally."

Spot's heart leapt. The only news reporter Spot had ever known personally was of course, Bryan Denton of _The New York Sun_. He welcomed any familiar face at this point. Spot knew returning to Park Avenue would be difficult, but merely staying the old manor was torturous. He had done nothing all day but watch the reporters outside his window and wonder what his friends were up to back on Spar Street. Seeing Denton would at least remind him that there was such a thing as freedom in New York.

He eagerly bolted downstairs, hopping the last three steps and skidding into the parlour. The butler and Mrs Conlon gave him disapproving looks. The boy was still running around, acting like some street urchin.

"Denton?" Spot called.

"Denton? ...Denton. Bah, that bleeding heart reporter from _The Sun_? Of course not, boy, use your eyes. Come, sit down."

Spot froze in his tracks, just inside the parlour. Seated on the sofa, across from Spot's mother, was the owner of one of the most successful newspapers in town and enemy of newsies everywhere: Joseph Pulitzer.

* * *

It was Lunch Money's favorite part of the day. It was the hour when she got to close the damn hat shop and go home. She hurried through the receipts, not really caring if she botched the inventory check and was out of the shop before six o'clock. The entire day had been a long miserable fog. She was unable to think of anything but where Spot might be, or what sort of high society to-do he was attending. As she made her way home, Lunch Money ferverently hoped that this was all a very bad dream. 

It was a gray day, the sort of spring day that doesn't truly feel like spring. The sun was gone and the clouds cast noticable gloom over Brooklyn. It was getting near dinnertime, Lunch Money realized. She would be the last to arrive, certainly. Racetrack was probably already stressing out over her whereabouts. Without Spot around to at least keep track of where Lunch Money was, Racetrack was now working double time trying to make sure Lunch Money stayed out of trouble in Brooklyn. Just like the good old days when they were sleeping in the alleys of Brooklyn. Kid Blink and Mush actually had a bet on how long it would take Racetrack's head to eplode from sheer stress.

She turned a sharp corner, running hard, head-on into another pedestrian.

"Jeepers, Lunch, watch it!"

It was Racetrack. He had indeed been too worried to allow her to walk home on her own. Lunch Money greeted him, apologizing grudgingly for nearly knocking him over.

"What was takin' you so long?" Racetrack demanded, "It's gettin' late."

"I always woirk this late. You know that."

The siblings walked along, continuing the petty bickering. They'd rather act annoyed at each other than wallow in the poor outcome of their love lives. They were close to Spar Street, when the Higginses encountered a similiar situation to that of Spot's current one. Without thinking, they passed an older gentleman, clad in black, and had they bothered to examine his face, they would have found him alarmingly familiar.

"Ow!" Lunch Money cried, as the man stopped her by grabbing her upper arm roughly. Racetrack turned around. It was Snyder.

"Run, Lunch, come on!" He panicked, "Let her go!" He added angrily to Snyder as they struggled against him. A police whistle sounded, and another severel cops came to Snyder's aid. This was trouble. Even as Lunch Money and Racetrack fought and tried to escape, they knew their attempts would be in vain. They were going back to the refuge.


	18. Can't Get Worse, Right?

_Author's Note: Whoa, an update! Thought I'd abandoned you guys, huh? Never fear. Between an outlandish amount of laziness, lack of motivation/inspiration and a month without internet access, I'm about the most evil author ever, leaving my story static for so long. Hope you like this chapter... it jumps around rather a lot, and is mostly there to set up for coming chapters, but I hope it will satisfy. Or infuriate with curiosity. _

* * *

"Pulitzer?" Spot couldn't believe it.

"Master Conlon, sit down, boy." Pulitzer looked practically giddy, "So I see you're back where you belong. I must say, you lasted out on those streets longer than I would have wagered-- especially after your attempt to save the newsies failed so miserably."

"Yeah, what's it to you?" Spot shrugged, taking a seat across from the old man, relieved that the butler was closing the parlor doors; this was a conversation he wanted to keep quiet.

"Well, you aren't quite the prize Jack Kelly is," Pulitzer said, giving Spot's ego a deep bruise, "But don't forget, I still keep my grudges against you."

Spot smiled broadly. No, he hadn't forgotten.

His original encounter with Mr. Joseph Pulitzer was in the summer of 1899. It was before Jack Kelly and David Jacobs had come to see him in hopes of persuading Brooklyn to support the strike. When the first cries of "Strike!" had gone up in Manhattan, Pulitzer had wasted no time in setting up a good defense. Spot remembered being summoned to Manhattan that very afternoon for an appointment with Pulitzer. Twenty dollars to deny any "ambastards" sent by Jack Kelly, that was Pulitzer's offer. So when David, Jack and Boots showed up on his pier, Spot kept his word to Pulitzer and refused his assistance. He collected his payoff, then promptly led the Brooklyn newsies to Manhattan, where they saved the day at the now infamous battle. Because, technically, Spot did keep his word to Pulitzer; he refused to give Jack Kelly help when he asked for it. So, Spot offered his help when it wasn't asked for.

"So, whaddya want, old man?"

"Only the opportunity to savor victory," Pulitzer said smugly, "And to request an interview. You're quite the human interest story."

"Yeah, right." Spot snorted. Hell would freeze over before he helped Pulitzer sell anymore newspapers.

"I'm publishing the story whether you grant interview or not," Pulitzer insisted, "I have enough antics on you boy; I could very easily assist in writing your biography. The New York World has reported the vast majority of your more serious crimes; we keep every article archived, you know."

"I don't care," Spot said indifferently, "I got nuttin' to hide. Everyone knows I'm a delinquent. There ain't much you can do to tarnish my reputation."

"Very well," Pulitzer got to his feet, clearly finished with the conversation, "Don't say I didn't warn you, boy."

"Yeah, I'm just shaking in my shoes."

"I see that even years of crawling in those foul streets haven't knocked the arrogance out of you." Pulitzer remarked, "You're still as spoiled and cocky as ever."

"Joe, are you really the person to give a lecture about ego?" Spot asked coldly. Pulitzer gave him an angry look, but let the gibe slide.

"Good day, Mister Conlon."

"And you, Mister Pulitzer."

* * *

When neither Racetrack, nor Lunch Money returned to Spar Street, the others grew uneasy. They waited until the following afternoon to start a search, hoping that they would come back in the morning. The Higgins didn't make it home, of course. They searched Brooklyn from top to bottom, asking around for any information on two Italian siblings. It was eventually deduced (thanks to the accounts of witnesses, and the recently reported Snyder-sightings) that they had in fact been arrested. 

Normally, this would be quite a problem. But if there was a silver lining to Spot's return to Park Avenue, it was the cash that came with the territory. The fifteen dollar fines held against Lunch Money and Racetrack was a mere pittance that Spot was more than eager to supply when Kid Blink and Mush arrived at his manor with the news of the Higgins's arrest.

Armed with enough money to Snyder off for their various convictions, Kid Blink, Mush, Boots and Crutchy strutted into the refuge on the following Tuesday morning, the boys ready to free their friends. Jack was once again left disgruntled on Spar Street. He was far too infamous a criminal to walk into the refuge, even with the protection of Spot's father's money. Crutchy led the way to Snyder's office, giving the glass windowed door a sharp knock. They entered without waiting for Snyder's response.

"I didn't expect that Sullivan's gang would turn themselves in quite so willingly." A greasy, weaseling voice greeted the boys once inside the dreaded child's prison.

"Don't get too excited Snyder," Crutchy said, having trouble keeping the contempt out of his voice, "We'se heah for Lunch Money and Racetrack-- I mean Anthony and Ava Higgins. We got the bail money... for all of us."

Snyder looked as though Crutchy had announced the cancellation of all major holidays. He reluctantly accepted the generous amounts of currency, counting it carefully and examining each bill suspiciously. When at last the bail had been counted and recounted, Snyder disappeared from his office. After a minute or two of silent waiting, Snyder reentered the office, Racetrack in tow.

"Where's Lunch?"

* * *

"Cassie, darling, the McClellans are here." 

Cassie resisted the impulse to vomit at the sound of the surname. Still, she heeded her mother's call and made her way to the parlor, her heart in her shoes. She took her usual seat on the sofa, next to Henry. Her insides squirmed, repulsed, as he slid his arm around her waist. She ignored him to the best of her ability, forcing herself to listen to the exceptionally dull conversation between her father and Henry's. Cassie tried not to think. She tried not to think that every morning for the rest of her life would be spent chatting on trivial subjects and drinking tea. No trips to Irving Hall to see Medda. No more cheering and hollering in the cheap seats at the racetracks.

"Yes there's some sort of to-do at Henrietta Conlon's."

"I haven't heard of so much fuss at that old house since her poor husband died."

To everyone's surprise, the ringing of the Arden's doorbell sounded from the entryway. As bemused as anyone else, Cassie gave the Arden's butler a startled look when he announced that she had a visitor. Cassie got to her feet, making an excellent show of keeping her composure. She actually gasped out loud when she saw who her mystery visitor was.

"Andrew!"

"Cass, how's it go--?" Spot's sentence was cut short by Cassie's enthusiastic hug.

"You came! Oh, Andrew, how could I ever thank you?"

"Yeah, I came. Don't remind me." He said sullenly.

"Well, look who's back from the dead," Henry's voice made Cassie jump. She stepped quickly away from Spot, guilty, "I didn't expect to see this scrawny brat in this house again in this life time."

"Well, surprise, Henry," Spot sent Henry a look of loathing, "I'm back."

Now, Henry McClellan was a terrible bastard, but that did not make him a complete idiot. After years of growing up with Cassie and Spot, he knew when they were scheming. As far as Henry was concerned, Cassie was the only thing that would bring Andrew Conlon back to Park Avenue. The cogs worked in his rotten brain, figuring that the moment Spot had gotten wind of Cassie's engagement he had made his plans for return. Spot always was a spoiled boy who had the best of everything and insisted on getting his way. Henry observed in only seconds exactly what Spot's intent was: to steal his fiance.

* * *

It was much later that Spot lay in bed, thinking miserably of his afternoon at the Ardens. Cassie's parents had fawned over him. Despite his controversial past, the Ardens seemed like they would be more than willing to marry their daughter off to a delinquent, as long as he was a rich delinquent. The McClellans were clearly affronted by Spot's intrusion on their private luncheon, and seemed to realize that Spot was indeed a threat to Henry and Cassie's engagement. Yes, everything was going according to plan. Cassie was getting exactly what she wanted. And for once in his life, Spot Conlon had nothing going to his liking. Quite apart from being again imprisoned in his childhood home, Spot was worried for Lunch Money and Racetrack. The previous day had been when his friends had come bearing the news that the siblings were trapped 

As he sat in the darkness, outrageously comfortable with his three satin pillows, Spot thought he heard a scratching sound outside his window. It was only wishful thinking, he decided. But as the shuffling became louder and the sound of a whisper reached his ears, Spot climbed silently from his bed, pleased to know that his friends hadn't forgotten him.

"Lunch?" He asked hopefully.

"Sorry," Kid Blink responded cheerfully, climbing through the window. Jack appeared a second later, hoisting himself onto the windowsill.

"Jack! Whatcha ya doin' heah? You're s'posed to be in hiding." Spot chided.

"Aw, it's dark out Spot; no one'll catch me. 'Sides, I wanted to talk to ya."

"We went to bail Race and Lunch outta the refuge today." Blink began.

"Bet Snyder wasn't too pleased about that." Spot smirked.

"No..." Kid Blink agreed hesitantly. Spot didn't like that tone-- it was the tone of someone who had bad news to share.

"Are Lunch Money and Race alright?" Spot asked didja get 'em out okay?"

"They ain't hurt," Kid Blink said bracingly, "And Race is back home."

"And Lunch?"

"We couldn't bail her out."

"Why the hell not?" Spot demanded, "I gave ya more than enough dough to keep Snyder happy! She only had a fifteen dollar fine."

"That's what we wanted to talk to you about, Spot. Her charges are a little more serious." Jack said heavily, "Lunch is on trial for murder. We thought ya might know somethin' about it."


End file.
